


Winter is Here

by Abel_VaLore



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Catelyn Tully Stark, BAMF Daenerys Targaryen, BAMF Jon Snow, BAMF Robb Stark, BAMF Sansa Stark, Dark Jon Snow, Dark Robb Stark, Eventual Relationships, Family, Family Secrets, Jon Snow is raised as a Stark, Multi, Psychological Trauma, Ruthless Jon Stark, Ruthless Robb Stark, Strong Sansa Stark, Warg Bran Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 90,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23122903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abel_VaLore/pseuds/Abel_VaLore
Summary: Family, duty, honor.  These are the principles that Catelyn Tully was raised on, and had made an inseparable part of herself.  A change in her character due to childhood trauma caused a ripple effect, changing all her children’s outlook on life and changing the course of Westeros’s history forever.Catelyn will protect her family, and as a Stark that includes her new husband’s bastard son.  Jon is forever a Stark, raised as Robb’s younger twin.Catelyn will do her duty and raise her children to be strong enough to protect their family and preserve their way of life.  Robb forgoes any notion of marrying for love and secures his alliance with the Frey.Honor.  Well, with both family and duty coming first, there's often little chance for honor to ever come into the equation.
Relationships: Arwyn Frey/Robb Stark, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Jon Snow & Arya Stark & Bran Stark & Rickon Stark & Robb Stark & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 458
Kudos: 1484





	1. Catelyn

Catelyn could pinpoint the exact moment her life had changed. When she changed. She was still a child, far from marriageable age when it happened. They were always told not to play in the forest; not to wander too deep. But Lysa had wanted to that day. They were supposed to be knitting that afternoon and Catelyn had tersely pointed out to her younger sister that they weren’t supposed to go beyond the glade. Lysa just laughed and Catelyn just sighed and gave in. After all, what could possibly happen?

She could hear her sister’s muffled screams; Lysa’s voice filled with fear calling for her. There were two of them. Two large and scary men. Lysa had shrieked when one of them had grabbed her; the man’s other hand covering her mouth as he pushed her to the forest floor to stop her from flailing. Catelyn just stood there. She didn’t scream. She didn’t do anything but stand there. The other man, standing before her, reached out and yanked her cloak off feeling the fine woolen fibers. It was an expensive cloak. Catelyn understood. They were being robbed. But Lysa kept screaming from beneath his hand and then she started crying. Disgust contorted the man’s face as she cried. He was annoyed, not angry, but he still hit her. Then Lysa stopped screaming. She stopped everything, falling completely limp. That was when Catelyn knew she had to do something. She couldn’t let them hurt her little sister.

As the other man stepped towards Catelyn, leaning down to grasp the golden chain around her neck and trying to unclip it she gripped her wooden knitting needles tightly; and in one swift motion jammed them right into his eyes. He cried out and his companion turned to look. But Catelyn was already moving. Ducking under the now screaming man she slid his knife from his belt and tackled the man on top of her sister. The blade stabbed straight through his throat and a burst of blood stained her hands. Yanking the knife out, Catelyn backed away from him. He fell backwards both his hands at his neck, trying to keep the blood from coming out. But it dripped from between his fingers and with a cough it spurted from his mouth.

The other man called out for his companion. But he wouldn’t answer; he couldn’t. One dying and one blind. Catelyn turned back towards the blind man. He hadn’t pulled the wooden needles from his eyes although his hands circled around them as though he wanted to but couldn’t or was too afraid to. He was cursing now. She wanted to take her sister and run, but what if this man came back for them? 

Catelyn approached him, her footfalls making no noise. Knife poised she slashed at his lower back, which was where she could reach. The man cried out a hatful curse and tried to turn, but his foot must have caught on a root or a rock because he ended up tumbling backwards. He managed to grab her wrist though with one of his flailing arms. But it was her free hand that still held the knife, and as she came tumbling down on him she used all her strength to stab at his chest. His grip tightened on her wrist and his other hand searched for the knife but ended up in her hair.

He yanked hard and she thought her hair would be pulled clean off her skull. But in response she ripped the dagger from his chest and stabbed again. She kept stabbing over and over and over. Until she realized his hand had fallen from her hair and the grip on her wrist was slacked. He’d also stopped cursing.

Leaving the knife in him she got up off of him and ran to her sister. Lysa’s eyes were closed, but she was breathing. She had fainted. Catelyn wasn’t particularly strong but she was able to pick up her sister and get them back to the glade. Everything was the same. They hadn’t been gone long enough for anyone to come looking for them. Carefully she laid her sister on the grass before falling to sit down beside her. Her hands were shaking as she reached up to wipe the sweat from her forehead. That was when she realized she was crying; that was when she realized she was covered in blood.

Furiously she wiped her hands on the grass. There was nothing to be done about her dress, but glancing over she realized Lysa still had her cloak. Carefully removing it from her sister she pulled it around herself tightly, covering her completely. It was then she realized what she had done. She felt sick and thought she was about to empty her stomach, but it was then that Lysa woke up.

“Cat?” Lysa sat up rubbing her eyes and looked around; her brow furrowing when she saw where they were. “What happened? Weren’t we in the forest? Weren’t there...” She looked afraid again. 

“You were just dreaming silly.” Catelyn smiled brightly at her sister. “We came out to knit and you fell asleep.” If she pretended nothing had happened then it would be true. She would forget about it and this sick feeling would go away. All she had to do was not think about it. Lysa seemed to accept this quite readily; then she frowned.

“Then, where are your needles?” The two thin wooden sticks protruding from the man’s eyes flashed through her mind.

“I must have forgotten them.” 

***

Even though she had resolved herself to forget, even though she’d burned that blood stained dress, that night she dreamed about it. Watched herself kill those men a thousand times. She woke up sweating with tears streaming down her face. She sat up and clasped her hands over her mouth to keep from sobbing aloud. Then she caught her reflection in her mirror, the moonlight illuminating her in the reflective surface. Her stomach rolled in disgust. She wiped the tears from her face almost angrily. Catelyn had been so composed when it was all happening and yet now she was falling apart. She hated it.

What she had done was necessary; she did it to protect her younger sister. She shouldn’t regret it and at the moment she decided she wouldn’t. There was no shame or evil in her actions. She should be proud. That’s what she said to herself. From then on she never cried, not from the dreams and not from anything else that would happen to her. Steel and anger would replace those feelings now. Tears were what one should be ashamed of; being composed and cold enough to do what was necessary no matter what was to be prized.

Slowly the dreams faded from her mind. But every now and then when they managed to worm their way back into her conscious she no longer felt like crying and that sickening feeling had disappeared. Pride and perhaps a twinge of pleasure was what those dreams now provoked.

What the event in the forest had taught her was what kind of person she was. For her actions had to be explainable. So from that she knew she was the type of person who would go to any lengths to protect her family. Family. Duty. Honor. She took those words more seriously than ever.

It was with this state of mind that Catelyn spent more time with her father listening to every bit of dialogue and watching every action taken in regards to the running of the house. She read a great deal and wanted to learn to fight as her brothers did, but when she had broached the subject with her father he had been appalled. She never mentioned it again. But she watched her brothers, their movements, why they hit where they did; where the vulnerabilities were on a man.

She needed to know. So it would never happen again.

***

She was engaged to Brandon Stark. He seemed like a nice man, though distant. Lysa insisted it was because of Catelyn’s cold attitude. She had become what many considered cold since her childhood and now she idly wondered whether her father had made this match because she was as cold as the North. That wasn’t to say she didn’t smile or enjoy a joke. But she was very matter of fact and goal oriented. 

But then the Winterfell heir had died and she was suddenly engaged to his brother, Eddard Stark. Catelyn figured he would be similar to his brother and perhaps in some ways he was; but he was different. He would smile when he spoke to her and seemed to be interested in getting to know her. Her hard nature didn’t make him leave, instead it seemed to encourage him; and then she was thawing; or at least that was what Lysa said. It may have been an arranged marriage but Catelyn was falling in love with this kind and honorable man.

They were married despite the rebellion and the night after their wedding they made love. To her it was simply necessary to produce an heir and finalize the marriage but for Ned it was more. The way he kissed her and touched her made her forget the reason they were doing any of it. She lost herself in him. It was then that Catelyn realized it. She was in love with him.

And then everything fell apart.

***

She found herself with child quickly. But with little for her to do during wartime she found herself listening to every bit of news about the rebellion. Whose armies were going where and why; who had gained the most strategic terrain and the like. She rationalized that it was a necessary skill for the wife of the head of House Stark. Besides, she enjoyed every bit of it. But a part of her also did it in the hopes of hearing anything about Ned.

She saw him again just a day after she had given birth to Robb. It seemed like a perfect reunion; she was so happy to see him and had given him an heir. But it wasn't as happy as it should have been. 

When he entered the room he was carrying a bundle, Catelyn thought nothing of it thinking it to be a cloak or some such. She held Robb out to him proudly, but Ned didn't put down what he was holding so he could take his son in his arms.

He already held a son in his arms. The dark black hair and complexion told Catelyn who he was immediately. He looked exactly like a Stark. For a moment Catelyn said nothing; did nothing. Finally she spoke.

“Who knows about him?” She could see the surprise on his face. No doubt he expected her to yell or cry but she did neither of those things. But there was an iciness in her voice and demeanor that had only existed when he had first met her.

“Just me.” Ned answered softly. “But I will raise him as my son.” He saw a flash of emotion cross her face but it was too fast for him to see what it was. “Cat... ” He started but stopped. He wasn’t sure what he should say; could say. Looking at the dark haired child in her husband’s arms Catelyn saw he was barely older than Robb, maybe only by a few days.

“I could have had twins.” Her statement caught Ned off guard. He furrowed his brow; not yet sure what it was she was proposing. “I’ve just given birth, and no one except the septa has seen him.” Catelyn replied. “If we’re quick to buy her silence no one will know.”

“What?” This was far from the reaction he had expected and prepared for.

“He could be Rob’s twin.” She was looking straight into his eyes with what Ned could only call determination as she spoke.

“Cat-” She cut him off.

“No child deserves to grow up a bastard, it’s not his fault you…” she grit her teeth. Catelyn couldn’t say it, or everything she’d built with him would completely fall apart; and it was so unstable already. She felt betrayed, and even more so because she had thought Ned to be one of the most honorable men in Westeros. If a man like Ned could do this what did that say about other men? She prayed she never had daughters, so they would never have to experience something like this. Feeling cast aside was the worst but there was still the way everyone would look at them if they knew. How they would view Ned, her, and her children. Catelyn couldn’t let that happen. So she would fix this. “And I will NOT have people thinking I couldn’t even satisfy my husband during our first year of marriage.” Her words were biting and he saw the flash of pain and sadness that abruptly transformed into anger. Looking up at him she held out an arm and took the child from him. The boys were clearly born within days of one another so it would be easy to pass them off as twins.

“What’s his name?” Her voice was softer and kinder now that she was looking at the dark haired child in her arms.

“Jon.”

“Jon…. Jon Stark.” She smiled down at the child. Her face tightened for a moment before relaxing once again. “Robb will be the oldest, born first. Your heir.” It seemed to Ned her words were almost an afterthought. She was so focused on the infants in her arms.

The distance Jon created between Catelyn and Ned would never disappear completely. But Catelyn was determined to raise Jon as her own. Because to her, if she pretended Ned’s betrayal never happened, then it didn’t. Sometimes it shocked her how much these things never happened. But the ghosts still lingered just as the bleeding eyes and slashed throat would never leave her.

***

The hardest part about raising a child for Catelyn was the crying. Not because it was annoying but because she still felt an overwhelming sense of disgust at the very sight of the tears streaming down the boys’ faces. It was because of this that both Robb and Jon learned quickly that crying would not bring their mother to them. Only when they were calm would she hold them; a graceful and loving smile rewarding them for their strength.

Sansa was born a year and a half after the boys. Robb and Jon were just two when they met their younger sister. Having just been born Sansa hadn’t learned not to cry. Catelyn wondered whether she was a bad mother. Whether it was abhorrent that she felt sick every time she saw Sansa or her boys cry. Her anxiety lessened though when she saw how Jon had taken to his younger sister. He would hold her as best he could in his small arms and hummed to calm her. Sansa learned not to cry, at least around her mother, but she never learned not to cry to Jon.

From the moment they could lift a sword Robb and Jon learned swordplay. Ned had thought them a little young for learning such things but Catelyn was determined they learned these things young. The very second that Sansa could walk Catelyn had her train with the boys. Most thought it was strange and extremely unorthodox for a girl to learn such things. But every time Catelyn looked at little Sansa she saw herself at that age. She wanted her daughter to be prepared. For the world was cruel and dark. Something Catelyn had learned very young.

The Greyjoys rebelled and Ned was forced to take up arms to quell the madness, leaving Catelyn to run and protect Winterfell. She ran things with such proficiency and seemed to know every goings on no matter how small. There were whispers and wonderings of why she had not taken control before; her iron fist was certainly effective. But Catelyn did not seek power. Family was what came first; then duty. Her duty as Ned’s wife was to be a supporter, not a leader. But with him away her duty had changed.

Despite her efforts things still got worse; war and conflict seemed to have that effect no matter who was in charge. More and more often the men guarding the keep would catch sight of scouts or perhaps would-be assassins. At first Catelyn thought it must be wildlings for the Greyjoys wouldn’t possibly be able to send someone to slip past Ned’s army. So she dismissed the talk of assassins sent to take revenge for the death of one of the Greyjoy boys. She was wrong.

Robb and Jon were about eight during this time. They were confined to the keep as was most everyone else during war time. They had taken the habit of playing in the tombs, both amazed by the large stone figures and sarcophagi. Catelyn headed down the steps to find them; the sun had set a half hour ago and they were usually back by then. 

The loud THWAP of skin on skin made her pause before she rushed down the rest of the way. There were her two boys standing and poised to fight; the side of Jon’s face was an angry red the skin smarting, causing tears to well up in the eye on that side. And before them was a large dark man holding a long dagger. Catelyn faced the man’s side and she didn’t hesitate for a second before she tackled him to the stone floor.

Curling her hand into a fist she slammed it as hard as she could into the man’s forearm forcing his grip to loosen and the small sword to fall from his grasp. Catelyn made to grab it, but the man tried to at the same time and the weapon ended up sliding across the floor. He was faster than her; his fist stunning her as it collided with the side of her head.

Then his hands were around her throat, his weight pressing down on her as she now lay beneath him. She clawed at his face, trying to reach his eyes. 

Suddenly blood was dripping down onto her and the man howled in pain. Tumbling off her, his hands reach to the back of his neck trying to stop the bleeding. Sitting up she saw Robb standing before her holding the steel in his small childlike hands. 

Not wasting any more time she took the sword from her son and approached the bleeding man. Robb had tried to stab it into his neck but it had veered off and cut the side of his neck instead. In one swift movement Catelyn struck his head with the hilt of the blade; the man collapsed, his eyes rolling back and then shut.

Turning back towards Jon and Robb she saw their eyes glued to the semi-unconscious man. She called out for maester Luwin; he and some of the guards men came immediately and were just as shocked that the assassin had not been seen; and why no one had known Robb and Jon were being attacked. It was then that Catelyn realized neither of the boys had screamed. They hadn’t called for help or cried out in fear. That was why no one had known; both of the boys had been silent.

Climbing the steps up to the world of the living, Catelyn saw Sansa. She was being held by the Septa. As soon as her blue eyes saw Jon and his now bruising cheek Sansa struggled out of the Septa’s grip and ran towards her brothers calling out Jon’s name. When she reached him she looked at and then lightly touched the discolored skin. For Jon’s part he just smiled at her.

“My Lady,” Luwin began. His eyes flitted to their prisoner and he opened his mouth to speak but Catelyn answered his question before he was able to ask it.

“Kill him.” There was no hesitation or even anger in her voice. It was as though she were giving any other household order. Luwin’s eyes widened.

“My Lady,” he began in protest. “He’s clearly of the Greyjoy line. Likely a second cousin of Lord Balon. Killing him could-”

“We don’t have supplies to waste on keeping him alive, and we can’t let him go.” Her voice was hard and Luwin would swear he saw Stark steel flash through her eyes. “He dies.” 

What she said was true and Luwin could not dispute her logic. The man had also tried to kill her sons. Family came first, then her duty, which was to protect them and the rest of Winterfell. But what of honor? Was it honorable to kill this man, a boy really? Maybe not, but family and duty would always outweigh honor regardless of the situation.

Robb, Jon, and Sansa watched and heard all of this; and while they were children much of it would stay with them.

That night Catelyn stayed with Robb. Expecting him to finally break down. He’d stabbed a man after all; he hadn’t killed him, but just trying to take a man’s life and seeing blood stained hands would affect him. Or at least it should. She waited for him to cry or wake up in a cold sweat. But that night he slept just as peacefully as all the others. 

That was the first time Catelyn thought that maybe something was wrong.

***

It was a while before Catelyn realized she was pregnant. At the start of the rebellion Catelyn had known Ned would leave. She remembered all too well the last time he had been away to war. He had brought Jon home. While Catelyn wouldn’t trade Jon for anything in the world--he was such a sweet and kind boy so much more like his father than Robb--still she didn’t want him to be with another woman. So she had held him tightly before he had left and they had conceived Arya. Although she didn’t know it until halfway into the rebellion.

So by the time Ned returned her belly was round and full, and, according to the Septa, the child would be born any day. She watched from above as Ned and his men arrived. A raven had come telling her the outcome of the rebellion and she watched with narrow eyes as the young Greyjoy, Theon, entered the keep. Her jaw was hard set; Robb, Jon, and Sansa could see how tense and bristled their mother was. 

“What’s wrong?” Jon asked, looking up at his frowning mother.

“This, rebellion,” she said the word with distaste, “the way it was handled.” They looked up at her questioningly. She sighed “How many times do you want to fight a battle?” they didn’t answer so she continued. “Once. Which means that you have to hit your enemy hard, so hard they are either annihilated or so crippled they will never be able to rise up against you again within your lifetime.” She sighed and shook her head. “I would have wiped out the whole Greyjoy line…” She muttered. Looking down at them she noticed the confusion in their eyes; for their father had done far from what she had said. She didn’t want their father to be diminished in their eyes though. “Your father didn’t do that though, because he’s a great man. You see, any man can kill, but only a great man can grant mercy, and forgive.” Which was true. Honor was everything to Eddard Stark. It always would be.

Just as with Jon, Catelyn didn’t blame Theon for his father’s actions. The boy was young, about ten, and Catelyn would treat him accordingly. But unlike Jon he wasn’t a Stark and he was too old for her to take on the role of a mother figure to him.

For a long while everything was at peace. Until it wasn’t.


	2. Sansa

Sansa craved her mother’s approval. Largely because she could never seem to get it. She knew her mother hated when she cried. Her mother had never said anything, but Sansa knew. The few times Sansa had cried in front of her mother had been awkward. Catelyn had patted her on the back, but she looked away from her daughter’s face. So Sansa didn’t cry, not in front of her mother at least. She’d hold her tears inside until she could get to Jon. He’d hold her and stroke her hair telling her everything was okay and she’d get better. Better at fighting. Better at just being. The fact that Arya, who was younger, could wield a sword and knife so much better than she could was embarrassing. It wasn’t for lack of trying. Sansa tried her hardest. Jon would do extra practice with her even. But he was too kind. He didn’t go hard on her, not like Robb did.

Robb and Jon were like night and day. It was fitting that they were twins. Jon had clearly gotten all the empathy and kindness, and Robb the raw strength and power. Not to say that Jon wasn’t a good fighter, because he was. Yet he always seemed to lose to Robb. Sansa wondered whether somewhere deep inside Jon believed Robb would always be superior in strength. Her mother had always said if you believe your opponent to be stronger than you, then they would be.

Robb, unlike Jon, would get frustrated when Sansa performed poorly when he taught her. But in many ways, Sansa realized she needed someone to push her. She’d certainly come away more worn out and with several new bruises when she practiced with Robb. Jon would frown and tell Robb he should be gentler with her. Robb would always just reply: “She’ll never get better if I don’t push her. You think anyone in the real world will be ‘gentle’ with her?” Jon would continue to frown and mutter about how she shouldn’t ever need these skills in the ‘real world.’ Her mother would disagree.

Sansa appreciated Robb for taking such an approach with her though. Because he was right. Besides, Jon was gentle enough to her for both of them. He’d braid her hair and take care of her when she needed it. Her father, while he allowed her and Arya to train with the boys, seemed to think she should be taught the skills of a lady. Jon agreed. He told her to be more careful and not to bruise or injure her body too badly. She was a girl after all. A pretty one at that. Sansa wanted to please Jon. He’d always been there for her so she wanted to meet his expectations. The problem was his and her mother’s seemed to be a bit different. She knew there must be a way to do both, but she hadn’t figured it out yet. Someday she would.

***

Sansa would always remember it. The moment she took the first step towards learning how to be her mother. Sansa had done particularly poorly in lessons that day, having fallen flat on her back to Arya. Again. She wandered through the Godswood. Jon was busy helping their father with something, so she was wasting time until he was finished.

A flash of blue caught her attention, and looking out she saw a little blue bird on the forest floor. It was flitting around trying to get off the ground, but one of its wings was injured. Immediately Sansa forgot her gloomy mood. Once, a year or so ago, she and Jon had found a squirrel with a broken leg. Jon had showed her how to splint the leg; and the two of them had taken care of it until it could once again walk. Seeing this little bird she thought about how she and Jon would help this bird too.

She walked towards it and reached out to grab it but it hopped away from her. It squeaked and hopped further away. Sansa made to grasp it once more but the bird evaded her again. Deciding she’d need to be faster, she readied herself, and right when the bird stopped, she pounced. She trapped the bird beneath her body grasping it with her hands. Sansa was quite pleased with herself at first. But when she opened her hands her face paled.

The bird was lying in her small hands, twitching but otherwise unmoving. Its bones had been too weak, its body too frail. Sansa’s mouth opened as though saying something might fix it. Nothing came out. She felt like crying, like telling the little bird she hadn’t meant to hurt it. Then she heard her name called out. Turning towards the familiar voice she saw her mother walking towards her. Sansa wasn’t sure what to do. She was frozen in place. Her victim still clutched in her stained hands. Her mother looked down at her and then at the bird in her hands.

“I...I-” Sansa didn’t know what to say. She knew she couldn’t start crying so she swallowed the tears that had threatened to fall. For a moment her mother didn’t do anything. But she didn’t look mad or upset. Very softly Catelyn lowered herself to the forest floor next to her daughter.

Looking at the small bird, her mother took it carefully from her hands. Brushing some of the leaves and dirt aside she lay the bird down before smoothing the earth over it. Not a speck of blue shone through; it was as though it had never been there.

“Sansa,” her eyes snapped back to her mother. “It never happened.” She said it so calmly so emotionlessly that Sansa almost believed it. “Sansa-” 

“It never happened.” Sansa repeated. Catelyn gave a soft kind smile. It was a smile Sansa rarely saw directed at her. She understood something then. When her mother spoke of losing because one believed oneself inadequate, when she spoke of oneself being the greatest enemy, this was what she meant. Destroying oneself from guilt or from constantly questioning their worth, by letting the horrifying acts of the past overwhelm them--that was the true enemy. 

Getting to her feet Catelyn took Sansa’s hand and pulled her up as well. Sansa followed her mother back towards the Keep. Back towards the training yard. That must have been why her mother had come looking for her. She’d seen her match with Arya and knew she’d be upset; probably crying in the forest. Well, Sansa hadn’t been crying, so that was a small mercy. But she didn’t want her mother to think she was so weak. Sansa stopped walking and her mother turned to look at her.

“I’ll be better from now on.” Sansa said as earnestly as she could. “I’ll try harder, to make you proud.” She was hoping for her mother’s smile, or at least a pat on the head. But her mother’s expression didn’t change. Instead she knelt down in front of Sansa and took hold of her shoulders.

“Words are meaningless,” Catelyn’s steel blue eyes seeming to see right through Sansa, right into her soul. “What matters are actions. You can say the prettiest things or make your expression as sincere as you want, but it doesn’t matter.” Her mother paused waiting for the words to sink in. “Don’t tell me you’ll do better, show me.”

Actions, not words or faces. A refusal to dwell on the past or even to remember it if unnecessary. That was what Sansa learned that day. That was how she would try to live her life. For she desperately wanted to be her mother. Wanted to be that strong and controlled. She hoped someday she’d make it.

***

Her sword was out of reach. It had taken Robb much longer to disarm her than normal. So she was learning. Yet she still ended up looking up at him as his blade came down towards her. Her eyes didn’t close, they never did. His blade stopped right at her neck. 

The first time they had used real weapons in practice, Sansa had been scared. Robb put all his strength into each blow. Yet had such control that he could stop his sword a hair’s breadth from her neck. She envied that control. Sansa could feel the cold metal against her throat; it was rather nice considering how warm she felt. She’d been practicing for almost an hour after all. What was odd was that Robb suddenly looked frustrated again.

“Why didn’t you block it?” He asked irritably, pulling his sword away from her. Sansa blinked.

“Block?” She repeated exasperatedly. “Robb, you disarmed me I have no weapon.” He sighed and then grabbed her arm.

“Like this,” Robb pulled her arm up to where it certainly would have stopped his attack, although she’d still be injured horribly. There didn’t seem to be any avoidance of getting hurt in such a situation. “Or you could have grabbed the blade and tackled me.”

“Grab the-” Sansa gaped. “I’d just end up bleeding anyway!”

“Well, would you rather be bleeding or dead?” Robb asked. Sansa frowned, feeling once again like she had failed.

“Oh come on Robb,” Jon broke in. “She did her best.”

“She needs to be able to think through her options in battle,” Robb returned. “Learning to choose between two evils is a necessary skill.” Jon rolled his eyes.

“And when, pray tell, will she ever have to choose between injuring her arm or losing her head?” Jon asked flatly, crossing his arms.

“It won’t necessarily be the sword she’s dealing with.” Robb pointed out. Sansa hoped this wouldn’t turn into another one of their bickering sessions. 

“Oy! Are we going to fight or what?” Arya asked. Robb and Jon continued to stare each other down. At last Robb relented. He held out a hand for Sansa and he helped her to her feet.

“You did a good job today, Sansa,” Robb ruffled her hair. A grin spread across her face and she headed over to the wooden fence where Jon was. He gave her a reassuring smile. Above them Sansa could see Theon watching them from a window. She’d asked him once why he didn’t practice with them. All he said was something about them being too close; that there wasn’t any room. Brushing it from her mind, Sansa turned to watch Arya take on Robb.

It had been going on for quite a while; Sansa thought it rather silly, but Arya was determined to beat Robb. Arya admired Robb more than anyone it seemed and indeed just as Sansa and Jon seemed a pair so did Robb and Arya. Every week or so they’d have a match and Arya would try some new strategy. But Robb lived for battle. That’s how naturally he took to the sword. Sansa envied him.

Sansa watched as they circled one another. Arya looking particularly excited. She must have had some new plan this time. Robb engaged first. Jon and Sansa were stunned at Arya’s response: She retreated. She never retreated. Robb was also surprised by her uncharacteristic reaction. He tried again but Arya continued to evade him. 

“Planning some kind of trick, Arya?” Robb asked, not really expecting her to answer. “Not very honorable of you.” Arya snorted.

“Honorable?” She scoffed, “And if it was for my family? If it was duty to kill you?” Arya asked slyly, a wicked grin gracing her dark features. Robb laughed.

“Then I guess I’d be proud to call you my sister.” He lunged again and she dodged. Glancing over at Jon, Sansa realized he seemed to understand what Arya was doing. Sansa wanted to ask but she was drawn back to the fight. 

Robb made a wide swing and instead of dodging to the side she ducked. Then it clicked. Arya had led him around the battlefield right to the place she wanted. She’d got him to swing his sword right into a wooden post. For a moment Sansa thought Arya might actually win, but then she saw the smirk on Robb’s face. 

Arya had expected his sword to be stuck in the wood, for it to give her a long enough time to disarm him and then finish it. Sansa saw Arya’s eyes widen as Robb ripped his sword from the post with relative ease. Clearly Arya had underestimated his strength or had been practicing with a weaker partner. Probably uncle Benjen, Sansa thought, every time he visited Arya would get excited and beg him to practice with her. 

Even though things didn’t go exactly the way Arya had hoped, it still gave her enough time to unsheathe her knife with her free hand and slash at Robb’s wrist. His hand spasmed and his sword fell from his grasp. Jon tensed and Sansa could tell it was hard for him to stop himself from intervening in the fight.

But then Robb grabbed her wrists when Arya tried to lunge and they tumbled to the ground. Arya found herself beneath her older brother, both her wrists held tightly in one of his large hands. His free hand went for his knife. He placed it softly against her neck. Sansa wondered whether he would cut her for retribution. Robb had nicked Sansa a time or two. It wasn’t mean though, or scary. It was just part of who they were. It was what they did.

“You lose,” Robb smirked down at her. Arya glared back, which made Robb laugh. He got up and yanked Arya to her feet. There was no line of red on her throat. 

“Robb,” Jon was next to his brother in a moment. He took Robb’s hand and turned it to look at the cut across his wrist. “You didn’t have to be so violent, Arya.” Both Robb and Arya rolled their eyes. “Come on lets go clean this.”

“Jon, it’s barely a paper cut,” Robb tried to dismiss it. All of them knew how this would end though. Sometimes Sansa wondered why he even protested anymore.

“Do you want it to get infected?” Jon asked dryly. Robb’s shoulders dropped and he groaned. But he allowed Jon to pull him out of the yard. Sansa also envied Robb because of that.

When Jon wasn’t with her, he was with Robb. They were close. Two sides of the same coin. Sansa thought it must be a twin thing.

***

She’d named her new dire wolf Lady. Partly because it was what a part of her wanted to be. Jon had always said she was a lady, but considering she barely knew how to sew or sing, she doubted she fit the definition. Lady though was graceful and beautiful. Although when she yawned Sansa could see the pretty little wolf had a dangerous side.

Soon after the King had come to their Keep. Sansa wasn’t sure whether she liked it or not. All those people. The prince, Joffrey, was handsome enough, with his golden hair and superior air, but Sansa hadn’t exactly spoken with him or seen him do anything that would help her construct an opinion of him. Jon didn’t seem to like him. But that was probably because Joffrey kept looking at her.

Then there was that strange conversation with the queen. Sansa saw how her mother was glowering, not on the outside, no her exterior was a perfect mask of the perfect lady, but Sansa could see it in her eyes. Jon had always told her the eyes were the window into the soul. So Sansa could tell her mother was not at all pleased.

Robb looked utterly bored by the entire event. Jon did as well but he was doing a much better job concealing it than his redheaded counterpart. Bran and Rickon had been sent to bed an hour ago. Arya was the only one who looked like she was enjoying herself. But that was because she was talking animatedly with uncle Benjen. Arya was absolutely fascinated with The Wall. Sansa couldn’t understand why; it seemed like nothing actually happened up there. It was just cold and boring.

Sharing the sentiments of her brothers, Sansa left the banquet as soon as she could. Walking out towards the yard, Lady in step beside her. That’s when she heard the voices. Her ears perked up and she listened.

“You’re sure you’re old enough to be at this banquet? I believe the children were taking their dinner in the kitchen.” Then laughter. She’d heard enough. Someone was being insulted. That was not right. Sansa didn’t think she’d ever really heard someone insult another person before--not to just be mean anyway. Her mother was strict about those sorts of things. Teasing was fine but being outright mean was another. And it was not stood for in House Stark.

Sansa headed towards the voices and found several men with their backs to her laughing about another comment they’d made. It made Sansa’s blood boil.

“Hey!” She yelled, getting their attention. She saw the dwarf between them. “You are not to be rude to guests.” One of the men snorted.

“We’re not your father’s men, you can’t tell us what to do little girl,” they laughed again. “Go back to the banquet.”

“You may not be my father’s men but my father is the friend of the king.” She replied loudly. They stopped laughing and looked at her. “I tell my father and you will be punished for your behavior. Or,” she smiled then, Robb’s smile. The one he gave right before he would strike. “Maybe my dire wolf here will rip your throats out. She doesn’t like rude people.” Lady snarled and bared her teeth menacingly. Sansa definitely loved her wolf. The look on the men’s faces made her swell with pride. She’d put that fear there. They dispersed muttering about how they were only having a little fun. Then she was left alone with the dwarf. Tyrion was his name if she remembered correctly.

“I’m quite used to that by now, my lady,” he began.

“Yes, but you shouldn’t have to be.” She cut in. Sansa really hated that about men. Anytime they received help they had to go and say ‘I could have handled that’ or the like. They could never just say ‘thank you.’ He laughed. She was surprised for a moment, not entirely sure what he found so funny.

“Well then, my lady, thank you for the rescue.” He gave her a lopsided smile and she felt her face color. The very thought of her rescuing someone seemed ridiculous to her. 

Well, she hadn’t expected that. Sansa mumbled a ‘you’re welcome.’ Tyrion chuckled. Sansa really wished she knew what it was that amused him so. Someday she would find out.

***

Leaving Winterfell was not something Sansa wanted to do. Arya felt even more strongly about it trying to think up any and every excuse for why they should stay. Their father thought it would be good for them. Sansa knew he worried they had grown up too much like boys. They never wore their hair down and they never exactly dressed up to look pretty. Efficiency was more important.

Perhaps their mother would have fought harder for them to stay. But she had a lot on her mind. Bran had fallen and was in a deep sleep. Neither Sansa, nor any of her siblings believed he had actually fallen. Bran didn’t fall. It was as simple as that. 

For once in her life Sansa felt she was better at something than Arya, and that was thinking clearly. While their father had given them permission to bring their dire wolves, Sansa had realized the city, the capital, was no place for Lady. She needed freedom and she needed space. She wasn’t a house pet. Jon and Robb would watch over her, and in turn Lady would watch over what mattered the most to Sansa in the entire world: her family. Arya though, would not leave Nymeria. 

Sansa really didn’t want to go. She hadn’t wanted to let go when she hugged Jon goodbye. Robb was a little stiff when she embraced him, but then he always was. Jon got all the warm and cuddly characteristics. Saying goodbye to her mother was hard. She didn’t want to cry, so she didn’t. But the tears were still there, under the surface. 

Her mother had told her to keep Arya safe. Taking her hands her mother placed something in them. It looked like a letter opener; it was so small. But it was sharp and long. It was a weapon. More importantly, her mother had whispered, was that she had to remember why she would act, how she would choose her actions. Family. Duty. Honor.

***

It was a boring trip. Sansa wandered through the camp looking for Arya, hoping that they could perhaps slip off somewhere and practice. But Arya didn’t seem to be anywhere in camp. Sansa came to a sudden halt when she found a soldier in her path. At least she figured he was a soldier.

“Uh, excuse me...” Sansa stopped hoping he would get the message and just move. He kept looking at her though. But he didn’t say anything. 

“He can’t speak.” She whirled around as the voice came from behind her. Looking up she saw the one they called the Hound. “His tongue was cut out.” To Sansa it seemed as though he was trying to scare her. 

Looking up at him she wasn’t really sure where to look. She figured looking at his scars would annoy him so she looked him in the eyes. But there was such darkness there she had to turn away. He bristled and she knew she had offended him. Before she could clarify that the scars, while certainly not attractive, were not what she had turned from, Joffrey appeared.

“Is he scaring you?” He asked. She didn’t like his tone. He didn’t even let her answer his question. “Why don’t we go for a walk? Just the two of us?” He held out his arm to her. Sansa figured he was trying to be polite.

“Sure,” she answered, taking his arm. Arya was still missing but Nymeria was with her so she was safe, just not where Sansa could keep an eye on her. She decided she could look for her later.

***

If she thought camp was boring she hadn’t realized it could get worse. Sansa tried to pay attention, but Joffrey just kept talking and talking about himself, his horses and his ‘amazing’ sword skills. But as her mother had told her, just telling her these things was meaningless. The sudden clattering of sticks made Joffrey pause and they both headed towards the sound.

Sansa was happy to have found Arya. She was there practicing with a servant boy, clearly teaching him a thing or two about swordplay. It was unbelievable how quickly things turned bad, Joffrey was suddenly taunting Arya and insulting the other boy, Arya was getting mad, and rightfully so, then Arya was hitting him with her stick and then Joffrey drew his sword.

Her options raced through her mind. She could call for help. No, the camp was too far away. She could tackle Joffrey. No, he was the prince and based off his arrogant attitude and his indulgent mother things would not turn out well were he to get injured. Arya’s cry snapped Sansa back to the situation. Arya had fallen somehow and Joffrey had his sword raised; Nymeria looked ready to pounce. So Sansa acted.

Rushing forward she blocked Joffrey’s blow, his sword cutting into the flesh of her forearm. She grit her teeth to keep from groaning or crying out in pain. She shoved Joffrey’s sword off of her, his stunned face priceless. Grabbing Arya’s wrist she pulled her from the ground and headed back towards camp making the longest strides she could.

“Sansa!” Arya called her name but Sansa wouldn’t stop until they were back. A wave of dizziness hit her and her breath became shallower. Then they reached camp. Looking down she saw the extent of the damage. His arm was covered in blood. But the bone didn’t feel broken, and she hoped she wouldn’t need stitches. Jon would be cross if she got a scar.

The first one to see them and come running was the Hound. He grasped her shoulders to keep her up right. She figured she knew what he wanted to know.

“We were not attacked, Joffrey’s fine.” She felt faint and suddenly found herself in his arms. Her body had gone completely limp. There wasn’t any pain, she was already in shock. Her mind was not in the best condition but still she thought about how pathetic it was for her to be so faint after only having her arm sliced open. Sansa wanted to be tougher than that. Her mother would be. Robb would be. Jon would be. 

She didn’t pass out but she did need stitches. She didn’t make a single sound when the maester sewed her skin back together.

“Sansa, we have to tell them what happened!” Arya hissed. Sansa had grabbed Arya’s wrist and kept her from going and telling their father what had happened. Telling their father, telling the king even, what would that do? If anything it would hurt them. Joffrey and his mother would be angry if they accused the prince.

“Nothing happened, Arya.” Sansa said. She said it so calmly and matter-of-factly that she thought maybe she sounded a little like her mother. It made her proud.

“What?” Arya asked incredulously.

“Nothing. Happened.” Sansa repeated, emphasizing each word. Arya could see the seriousness in her sister’s eyes. Stark steel and icy blue shone. Finally, Arya nodded.

Sansa told them it was an accident. She was vague and claimed not to remember everything. Dutifully, Arya backed up her sister’s story. After all it was for family. Her father didn’t seem to believe her but he let the matter rest. The Hound though, the way he was looking at her was strange. It was as though he was trying to figure her out. Which was ridiculous since Sansa knew out of all her siblings she was the most transparent.

What she realized later in the night when she was alone was that she hadn’t cried at all. Her eyes hadn’t filled with tears and her chest hadn’t felt tight with sadness. Sansa felt a burst of joy at that realization. She wondered whether it was because without Jon she couldn’t. He was who she confided in after all. Sansa also wondered whether it was because it was merely physical pain. She didn’t cry at the bruises or cuts she got in practice; she cried when she saw how inadequate she was. Someday soon Sansa would learn she could handle a great deal of physical pain. Emotional pain though, would be something she would never learn exactly how to handle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Catelyn

Catelyn was furious. They had tried to kill Bran. Her son. She wasn’t entirely sure yet who exactly was behind it, and considering all the information available to her, Catelyn couldn’t think of any logical reason why anyone would want to hurt him. If it were Robb it would have been another matter; he was the heir after all. The only conceivable reason she could think of was that he had seen something; that Bran knew something.

When he had first fallen, Catelyn couldn’t say for sure whether it had truly been an accident or not. But when an assassin had attacked him in his bedroom, she knew it for a fact that it was not. Catelyn hadn’t been able to be with Bran every second since the incident, but Summer, and then Lady as well, had been watching over Bran the entire time since he’d fallen; they’d been there to tear apart the man who had tried to stab her young son. Lady had been injured on her front leg where the man’s knife had gotten her, but other than that there was no other damage to any of them.

The knife was a clue. One Catelyn was determined to follow up on. She would have to go to King’s Landing, and it would have to be her. Catelyn still had connections in the south. Petyr for one, who would be quite capable of setting up a clandestine meeting with her husband. Not that she trusted her father’s ward. But from the way his eyes followed her during their childhood and even after she was married, Catelyn knew he would do as she asked. He would, no doubt, act in his own favor, but in this case Catelyn believed he would do as she asked.

Maester Luwin would be accompanying her. Their horses were set and ready. Catelyn looked around the Keep and then at her children standing before her. All except Bran. She hugged Rickon goodbye; she could feel his small hands gripping her cloak tightly. Normally Rickon was a shadow to his mother, following her around without fail, observing everything and asking her any and every question. So Catelyn knew that while he would never say it, he didn’t want her to go. Letting go of her youngest she placed a hand on Robb’s shoulder.

“I’ll take care of Winterfell.” He told her; it wasn’t a reassurance, it was just a statement of fact and truth. Catelyn trusted Robb with his family and with his duty. She had raised him well. Turning to Jon, he wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug.

“And I’ll take care of Robb.” Jon whispered in her ear. Pulling back she smiled and stroked his cheek affectionately.

“See that you do.” She whispered back.

***

The journey was not as long as it would have been normally. Partly because it was just the two of them, but also because Catelyn did not deem it necessary to stop as often as most others would. She was willing to ride through the night and despite her age she was fit enough, and determined enough, to make such a journey that others would not have been able to make. Anger drove her in part. For she would find the person who wanted her child dead, and when she did she would be the last person they would ever see.

The prospect of seeing Ned was also there in the back of her mind. She missed him; and deep within her she felt that same uneasiness that had been with her when Ned had been gone during the Greyjoy rebellion. Catelyn would have liked to see her girls, but she wasn’t sure that would be feasible. In all honesty Catelyn hadn’t wanted her daughters to go to King’s Landing; she hadn’t wanted them to leave Winterfell. Family stayed together. Yet she suddenly found Bran nearly dead and Ned trying to convince her to let him take Sansa and Arya. Ned had said they should learn to live in proper society; that at their age she could no longer indulge their desire to be like their brothers; he didn’t seem to realize that it was actually Catelyn’s desire.

What Catelyn had seen in Ned’s eyes however when he was listing all the reasons it would be good for them to go, was sadness. Ned hadn’t wanted to go. That note from Lysa had convinced him that something awful was happening at King’s Landing and out of his sense of honor he had to investigate. Robert was his friend after all. So he felt he had to go, and Catelyn could see that what he really wanted was to bring a piece of his home with him. He had recognized that taking any of his sons would be a disaster. All of them were hard as steel and would not be able to or willing to integrate at court. Jon, perhaps, would have tried his best, but in the end he was a wolf like the rest of them. The girls were his only option. Catelyn had understood this; and part of her wondered whether she allowed it because of her uneasiness. That if he had a reminder of home, of her, then he would not think to betray her again.

The moment they entered King’s Landing Petyr had found her; just as Catelyn knew he would.

“How did you know?” She asked him. Sometimes she wondered whether he always knew where she was. It was a disturbing thought, but then Petyr himself was an unsettling character.

“A Tully stands out, my lady.” Catelyn suppressed her frown. She knew he was referring to her auburn hair and blue eyes, but still, she was a Stark. Not just in name either, not really. The Tully’s were kind and generous in personality. Catelyn was ice and steel. She belonged in the north, with Ned, in Winterfell. Despite her heritage, inside Catelyn was a true Stark.

Petyr was more than willing to set up a meeting between her and Ned. Catelyn didn’t like it. She was not aware of everything that was happening in King’s Landing, and as such she knew she would not be able to accurately figure out what Petyr was getting out of this.

Ned was surprised to see her, but happy. And that made Catelyn happy. She explained the situation, her expression darkening when she described the attempt on Bran’s life. Petyr recognized the knife, and told them it belonged to the dwarf, Tyrion Lannister. A half formed picture began to come together in Catelyn’s mind. But she needed more information.

When they were at last alone she asked what was bothering Ned. He’d seemed a little disconcerted the entire time. Catelyn didn’t like how reluctant he seemed to be to tell her whatever it was that was bothering him. Finally she got it out of him.

“All of Robert’s bastards are dark haired like him, yet all his children are fair haired.” 

“You think Joffrey is a bastard?” Catelyn clarified. Ned said he wasn’t sure, that he needed more information. That it was only a guess. To Catelyn it seemed not only logical but probably true. One more reason for why Sansa should not marry the little prince.

Catelyn had hated the very suggestion of it when the Queen had made it that night at the banquet. Her child would not be sent south to live a life in court like a tame pet. She also didn’t like the way Joffrey’s eyes moved over her eldest daughter. Jon hadn’t either. That night, after the banquet, right before she was about to retire for the night Jon had come to her:

_“You can’t let him marry her.” Jon had said his face serious and determined. Catelyn had raised an eyebrow, although she shared his thoughts. “She deserves someone good and strong.”_

_“Someone like you, or Robb?” Catelyn had asked. They both knew there was no one who could really compare to the two of them. But Jon shook his head._

_“Someone like Robb would overshadow her and someone like me...” His eyes cast down and he smiled sadly. “Robb’s right, I’m too gentle with her. She’d never reach her full potential with someone like me.” His eyes moved back to his mother’s. ”No, she needs someone strong in mind, who won’t keep her from growing, who will encourage her, and love her, and not just for her beauty.” Catelyn had reached out and stroked his black hair, a sad smile forming on her lips._

_“Do you suppose such a man exists?”_

Snapping back to the present Catelyn embraced her husband in goodbye. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Petyr. So she whispered softly in his ear: “Don’t trust Baelish.” Ned had furrowed his brow, but said nothing.

***

She headed back to Winterfell, moving just as swiftly as before. Luwin, however, grew more tired on the return and so with only half a day’s journey left they stopped at a small inn. Catelyn would be glad they did. For as they supped who should arrive but the supposed assassin, Tyrion Lannister. He recognized her at once.

“My Lady Stark,” the dwarf began, his voice jovial, although as always there was that hint of sarcasm. Before he could continue, likely to ask what she was doing in such a place Catelyn spoke.

“My Lord Lannister, how nice to run into you. Please, won’t you join us?” Catelyn smiled politely. He acquiesced, and asked her to call him Tyrion. She asked him about his journey up to the wall. Tyrion was quite enthusiastic about the place; it reminded Catelyn of Arya. At last when their meal had winded down Catelyn got down to business.

“So tell me, Lord Tyrion, who do you think would want to frame you for the attempted murder of my son?” He choked on his wine.

“What?” The dwarf asked, dumbfounded.

“Your knife was used in the attack,” Catelyn took it from her cloak and laid it on the table between them. Tyrion’s eyes widened in surprise and confusion. “Now, I’d like to think you’re intelligent enough not to use a murder weapon that could be so easily traced back to you. In fact I would like to think no one would be that stupid. Which means someone is trying to frame you.” Tyrion was still staring at the knife. “Or did you honestly try to murder my son?” His eyes snapped back up to her’s.

“Lady Stark, I have no reason to wish death on your young son.” He swallowed. Catelyn’s eyes bore into him and her mouth stayed in a firm line. All and all she was probably rather intimidating. “I haven’t seen that knife since receiving you and Lord Stark’s hospitality in Winterfell.”

“Well then I guess I don’t have to kill you.” Tyrion seemed frozen for a moment. Catelyn smiled pleasantly and he seemed to relax, taking it as a joke. “Still, the person who framed you is the one who’s behind these attempts.” 

“Lannister’s are not the best liked throughout the kingdom, but I can’t think of anyone who would want to frame me for such a thing.” Tyrion said his brow knit in thought.

“Then you should come back with me.” He looked up at her. “To Winterfell.” She clarified. “Perhaps when Bran awakens more light can be shed on this unpleasant event.”

“I’m not sure-” Tyrion began. Catelyn cut him off.

“Do you want to be my guest, Lord Tyrion, or my hostage?” Catelyn asked. He would be coming back with her, because when Bran did wake she would in all likelihood need whatever information Tyrion had regarding those who might want to frame either him directly or the Lannister’s in general.

“I think I would prefer to have you as my host than my captor,” Tyrion replied quickly. Catelyn smiled, this time it was not exactly pleasant.

“Good choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!  
> Next time: Bran


	4. Bran

Bran thought he was dying. He couldn’t see and he couldn’t feel his body. Moments after he had fallen, before the blackness had taken him he had seen Summer’s, his dire wolf’s, yellow eyes above him, and tasted the irony tang of blood on his tongue. Then there was blackness. Then there was light.

It was like a dream. Watching Arya practicing with some young boy. Bran saw everything as though he were as short as Rickon. He saw his mother’s hard set face. Saw Arya and Sansa walking the halls of some strange place. Stranger still he saw himself, lying unconscious on his bed. He couldn’t seem to move for the longest time. Then he could.

If he looked down he saw Summer’s paws. He must have been dreaming. But Bran couldn’t help but feel he was not. Walking over to the window he had to jump up slightly and rest his paws on the sill to look out over the yard. He heard the door open, the loud creak of the wood magnified through his wolf ears. It was Jon.

“Hey Bran,” Jon smiled. But not at Bran. Well, it was aimed at Bran lying on the bed. Bran watched as his brother removed the wet cloth from his forehead and replaced it with a new one. Jon sat in the chair by the bed and took Bran’s human hand in his own. It was so strange to see. Bran approached his older brother and could see how his state upset him. So Bran, just as with the window, jumped up and placed his front paws on his brother’s thighs so he could reach eye level with him. Jon looked surprised at the wolf’s actions. Bran nudged his wet wolf nose against Jon’s cheek and Jon smiled. Bran liked that. He didn’t like seeing Jon frown, not like that anyway. 

Jon’s brow furrowed for a moment and he ruffled Summer’s fur. “I could have sworn you had yellow eyes, Summer.”

Then he couldn’t move again. He saw his sisters in a strange room. Arya was complaining about having to wear a dress. Sansa was trying to explain the necessity of it and that it wasn’t that bad. Bran, however, agreed with Arya.

Images passed before his eyes and he knew he wasn’t dreaming. But what Bran truly wanted was to see from his own eyes. Then he had a dream. A real dream. Or at least it was not of the real world. It was snowing, cold and vicious. In the distance he saw an army. An army of white figures with dead and soulless eyes. Then he heard the roar of a terrible beast and the world was set aflame.

Bran’s eyes snapped open and he bolted upright. He blinked before he realized it was his own eyes he was seeing from. He was back in his body. Smiling, he looked at his hands. Human this time. Then he tried to move and found he couldn’t. Well, he could move his arms and torso but not his legs. In fact, Bran realized he couldn’t even feel the lower half of his body. He couldn’t walk.

Most would be horrified to learn such a thing. Cry or scream in anger. Curse the gods. Perhaps Bran should have; he could no longer climb. But instead he sat in silence as thoughts swirled around in his head. Finally, Bran concluded that it wasn’t that bad.

Bran was different from his siblings. He did not take naturally to the sword like Robb did, nor was it as foreign to him as it seemed for Sansa. What it came down to was that Bran was a thinker, not a fighter. That was what frustrated him the most when he practiced with his siblings. Bran could see what he needed to do, how he should move, what his opponent was planning, but he could never get his body to move fast enough or move in the way he wanted it to. Oftentimes Bran would rather explain to Arya what she ought to do as she was able to execute his visions almost perfectly. Bran thought then that it was almost fitting that he lost a part of his body considering he’d never gotten it to work right in the first place. It was almost laughable in a way.

“Bran!” He looked up to see Jon. Bran found himself in his brother’s arms. He patted his brother’s back and muffled an ‘I’m fine.’ “We were so worried.” Jon’s smile was contagious. A thought seemed to strike Jon just then. “I have to get Robb; Bran do you remember anything that happened?”

Bran opened his mouth to answer, but when his thoughts went to Robb he saw a flash of an image. Ignoring his current surroundings he concentrated on that image and found himself in the courtyard next to Robb. He was seeing from Grey Wind’s eyes.

“Mother’s here.” Bran said suddenly after his pause. His eyes returning to Jon’s. “What’s wrong?”

“Your eyes,” Jon started. “They turned grey.” Bran found that interesting, but he wasn’t about to explain why that was just yet. No something else was much more pressing. But Jon spoke again. “Bran, Mother’s gone to King’s Landing-”

“She’s back, the dwarf is with her.” Bran stated. Jon’s mouth set in a hard line. “Look out the window.” Bran suggested nodding towards it. Jon did as his brother asked.

“How did you know?” Jon asked, turning back to his brother his brow furrowed. He knew Bran could not have seen from his position on the bed.

“Later,” Bran answered. “Get mother and Robb. There’s something I need to tell you.”

***

Bran was young, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew what he had seen the day he had ‘fallen.’ A long time ago, or perhaps not that long, when their mother had been pregnant with Rickon, Jon had asked her how babies were made. All five of them had wanted to know, but none of them wanted to admit they had no idea about such a basic concept. Their mother had answered quite offhandedly, but truthfully: “The same way foals, pups, and kittens are.” They had all seen the horses when they were bred, and the dogs and cats. The very idea of a man mounting a woman in such a way though was somewhat repulsive to Bran. Seeing Jamie and Cersei Lannister in such a position was, while disturbing, rather educational. Especially since Bran had never exactly been able to picture human beings behaving like the other animals of Winterfell.

It felt a little strange explaining what he had seen, especially since the dwarf, Tyrion, was there as well. Not embarrassing, no Bran was unabashed talking about anything and everything. Bran had no difficulty in explaining in detail exactly what he had seen. The dwarf looked slightly disturbed, but not surprised.

“Your father was right then.” His mother mused, and she explained to them what their father had learned while in the capital. The puzzle pieces came together for Bran and, judging by his brothers’ expressions, Jon and Robb as well. 

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Tyrion muttered. “Although I suppose we know who your assassin is.”

“Jamie didn’t seem to hold any ill will for you though, so I doubt he would have tried to frame you.” Jon, ever observant, must have seen the dynamic between the two brothers. In truth Bran had as well. Just as Jon, Bran was an observer. He could see the connections between people; he had seen the animosity between the King and Queen, the dark hatred for others in the one they called the Hound, and the indifference yet loneliness of Tyrion. The bonds between his siblings were even easier to see. He could also understand people’s motives. But unlike Jon, Bran couldn’t seem to empathize with them as easily. 

“No,” Tyrion agreed. “That would be Cersei.” That made sense. Bran had seen no love between those siblings. Something that was unsettling. Family was supposed to stick together.

***

Jon stayed behind after the others left. Bran saw his eyes on Summer and then up at him.

“Do you want to tell me how you knew?” Bran knew what he was referring to. Family didn’t keep secrets. But what he wouldn’t tell Jon about was the dream he had seen. For some inexplicable reason Bran knew it wasn’t a dream, but then he wasn’t really sure what it was. It wasn’t as though Jon wouldn’t believe him, but even Bran wasn’t sure what to make of it. An army of white walkers and the world set aflame. It didn’t make any sense. Not yet anyway.

“I could see it.” Bran stated. Jon waited, so he continued. “When I was asleep... I wasn’t really asleep. At first I thought I was dreaming, but somewhere inside I knew I wasn’t. I could see through Summer’s eyes. And then from Nymeria’s, Grey Wind’s, Shaggy Dog’s, Ghost’s.”

“It was you when Summer tried to comfort me, wasn’t it?” Jon asked; although it seemed more of a statement to Bran. 

“How did you know?”

“His eyes were blue.” Bran looked down at his wolf. Yellow eyes stared back. Jon took a moment to think before he next spoke. “I’ve heard of this before.” That had Bran’s full attention. “In the library, there’s a book, a history of the House of Stark that talked about something called a ‘warg connection.’”

“Why have I never heard of this?” Bran asked. “Is this part of the Stark heritage?”

“Not all Starks were gifted with it, and it seemed to disappear around the same time the dire wolves did.” That would explain it. The dire wolves had all but vanished years ago. That they had found those pups so far south was a miracle. Bran slid his fingers through Summer’s thick fur. He was glad they had found them. “They say those with such a connection can possess any animal.” Jon smiled and ruffled his younger brother’s hair. “Lucky you.”

Bran smiled. The idea of possessing such a gift sent a thrill through him. He may have no talent with a sword, but taking the form of an animal was definitely special. True he had his mind. His ability for connections and seeing clearly. But in a family where strength was held above all, having a sharp blade rather than a sharp mind was better. With this though, Bran could think of all kinds of ways it could be useful in a battle. This was just another reason Bran decided losing his legs was, perhaps, not the worst thing in the world. Now Bran would have something his family would be proud of him for. He would be useful now.

At the thought of family an image seemed to appear. He saw his sisters. But something was wrong. They were running.

“Something’s happening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading everyone!


	5. Sansa

She wasn’t exactly sure what was happening. But she knew it wasn’t good. She and Arya had been practicing together with an instructor their father had acquired for them after Arya kept bugging him about it. He was called their ‘dancing’ instructor, Syrio Forel. Sansa had liked the man; he was a foreigner but he treated her the same as he did Arya. She liked that. 

He had taken her aside at one point and asked why she was focusing her power in an area that was not her strength. At first she’d blushed furiously at the realization that she was so bad even someone outside their family could tell. But then he told her that her strengths clearly lay elsewhere. So after they had practiced swordplay and Arya had left, he taught her the best uses for a knife and helped her hone her hand-to-hand combat. Robb had taught her most of what she knew and he had taught her well, for she was far more skilled in that area than with a sword. But still, Syrio had told her that while she held affinity for such areas there were other strengths she possessed that had nothing to do with weapons or fists. Sansa could only glean what he was getting at.

But their practice that day had been interrupted as a group of guards had come for them. Syrio had told them to run. It wasn’t truly in their nature to do so, but Sansa remembered her promise to her mother. To protect Arya. So she grabbed her sister’s hand and pulled her away from the fight despite her protests. Nymeria had followed after, never leaving Arya’s side. Sansa felt a sinking feeling in her gut as she realized she would never see Syrio again. As they ran down the hallway their path was suddenly blocked. It was the Hound. Sansa dropped her sister’s hand and moved to stand in front of her. Nymeria growled menacingly.

“Arya, go.”

“I’m not leaving you!” Arya said angrily. Sansa had to protect her though, so she thought of the words that would make Arya obey her. She found them.

“You need to get back to our family,” Sansa’s voice was even and hard. “It’s your duty to tell them what’s happened.” Neither of them was exactly sure what had happened, what had caused soldiers to come for them. But that didn’t matter to Sansa. Arya looked like she wanted to protest but Nymeria suddenly grasped Arya’s sleeve, trying to pull her away. Sansa caught the beast’s blue eyes; the same color as her own. So Arya, reluctantly, ran.

Sansa blocked the Hound’s way. He seemed to find the situation funny. She stood her ground though and curled her fists. When he reached out to grab her she smacked his hand away. He seemed surprised by her strength. In that moment of surprise Sansa slammed the heel of her hand under his chin sending his head snapping back. She would have normally aimed for his nose, but he was too tall for her to reach. Swiftly turning, she ran. Arya would have had enough time to get away by now. 

The Hound recovered faster than she would have thought though, and was much faster too. She suddenly found herself caught; one of his large arms holding her back against his chest. Her arms trapped by her sides. Without hesitation Sansa drew the small blade her mother had given her and jammed it into his leg. He gave a grunt of pain but his grip on her only seemed to tighten. She was about to try to stab him again when he suddenly used his free hand to grasp her forearm, the one that held the knife, the one that, just a few weeks ago, had stitches. Sansa sucked in a breath trying to keep herself from hissing in pain. Using all her strength she threw her head backwards, the top of her head smashing right into his nose.

“You want to end up in the dungeon like your father, girl?” He growled. Sansa froze. In the dungeon. Like her father. Father had been captured. Her weapon clattered to the ground and the fight left her. The Hound seemed somewhat puzzled at her surrender. Perhaps his words would have made someone else fight harder. But for Sansa, this meant her father was trapped in King’s Landing. And she couldn’t leave him there. She would have to find some way of getting him out before she could even think about joining Arya.

“You can let go of me.” Sansa said, her voice unnaturally calm. She turned her face to look up at him. “I won’t run.” He must have seen something in her face that made him trust her because he released her.

“Come on.” He growled, leading her down the hallway.

***

He took her to see the Queen. Cersei sat her down and told her how her father had denounced Joffrey as King. How he was a traitor. Sansa made no hesitation in replying that he must have been ill or momentarily mad, for her father would never go against the King. But she knew very well her father was not mad or mistaken. Her father was an honorable man, and he would not do something without there being a good reason for it. Then Cersei asked her to write a letter to her brother, Robb. For when he received the news that their father had been jailed he would surely rally his forces. Sansa nodded in understanding.

“I write this letter, and I can see my father?” She asked. Cersei bit her lip, her eyes narrowing in thought. Sansa knew at that moment that her father must know something. Something dangerous, something that could hurt Cersei.

“I’m not sure that would be the best, little dove.” Cersei reached over and stroked Sansa’s hair. Sansa let her.

“I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding.” Sansa replied. She had to see him. Even if Cersei didn’t want her to see him she would find a way. She needed to know what happened. Needed to know so she could fix it. Cersei didn’t answer; she just slid the piece of parchment and quill towards Sansa.

Sansa would write the letter. Not because Cersei wanted her to and not because she hoped that doing so would allow her to see her father. No, she wrote it so that Robb would know at least a little bit of what was going on. She knew Cersei would read her letter, but that was alright. Sansa knew how to write so that Robb got the message.

Most people when they wrote letters added little pleasantries, so Sansa remarking that Nymeria was always best outdoors, didn’t seem odd. But Sansa would never normally write inane sentences with no purpose. So when Robb read the sentence she hoped he would understand her message; that Arya had escaped. Were the situation to truly have been a mistake and her father not been jailed she would have written exactly two lines: It was a misunderstanding. Everything’s fine. That would be all Robb needed. But here, in this letter she wrote for Cersei, Sansa wrote an entire page. 

***

In the end Cersei would not allow Sansa to see her father. So the only thing Sansa could think to do was go before the king and ask for mercy. She was a proud person, and under any other circumstance Sansa would never deign to beg anyone for anything. Except for this. Except for when her family was in danger. Because family came before pride. It came before everything.

She repeated to the King her story about how her father was surely just temporarily mad, that it might have been some medicine he had taken. Joffrey nodded, an annoying grin spread across his face. He was enjoying seeing her on her knees before him. But if it saved her father’s life then Sansa didn’t really care. She rose to go when a thought suddenly occurred to her, something her mother had once said. Something Sansa would always remember. She turned back to the boy-king.

“Any man can kill, your grace,” Sansa said, her eyes boring into his. The intensity of her gaze made him shift uncomfortably. Perhaps he was afraid. “But only a great man can grant mercy and forgive.”

Varys, the eunuch, was waiting for her in the wings when she left her audience with the King. He beckoned her to follow him, and she did. Sansa didn’t know him all that well and certainly didn’t trust him. But she’d seen him with her father, and at the moment she would take anything she could get.

He led her down to the dungeons. Down to her father. Seeing him chained made Sansa’s chest ache. Varys let her into the cell and she promptly threw her arms around her father. She stayed in his embrace while Vary’s told him what would be required for him to keep his head. He would have to give up his honor. Ned shook his head at first.

“Honor is all there is in this world.” His words made Sansa feel like she’d been slapped.

“And what about your family? What about me and Arya and everyone!” Sansa snapped. She could feel tears, of anger or sadness she didn’t know, filling her eyes. Then her voice softened. “Do we mean so little to you that you would place honor above us?” He looked away from her but said nothing. Sansa realized that was all she could say to try to convince him, so she changed the subject. “Tell me what happened.” Her father looked back at her and then shook his head.

“It’s too dangerous,” He paused. “Besides, your mother knows.” Sansa felt a little more at ease at his words, but still she wanted to know. Her mother was hundreds of miles away and could do nothing for Ned. But Sansa could. Or at least she hoped she could.

“Who did this to you?” Sansa asked; she needed to know whether it truly was only Cersei and Joffrey behind this or whether there were others she needed to be cautious of. When he looked away again she grasped his face between her hands and forced him to look at her. He didn’t have much of a say in the matter because of the restrictive chains.

“We need to go.” Varys whispered suddenly. Ned looked like he was about to say something, but they had no time. Sansa hugged him one last time, and as she did so he whispered three words to her.

“Don’t trust Baelish.” That was enough. That was all Sansa needed. A name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading and for your comments and kudos!!  
> I know this chapter is a little short, so I'll be updating again in a couple days. Next time we're with Tyrion, yay!!


	6. Tyrion

Jamie had come to meet him. Had come very far north with a garrison just to collect his younger brother. The Stark boy had been right, Jamie never harbored him any ill will. While Tyrion appreciated that his brother actually cared for him he was not as happy to see him as he might have been. Jamie had tried to kill Bran Stark; a child. All because he hadn’t wanted anyone to know about his relationship with Cersei. Although Tyrion would bet that it was Cersei who had told him to do it. Jamie wasn’t usually that malicious. Tyrion couldn’t bring himself to smile at his older brother, so Jamie knew something was wrong. Without saying a word Tyrion walked across the camp that had been set up for the evening and entered the tent, expecting his brother to follow him. They needed to talk.

***

_ As he had been about to leave Winterfell, Lady Stark had asked him what he intended to do. Tyrion had needed to think about that for a minute. He knew what Lady Stark wanted to do. Or maybe she was going to do it. Kill them. He’d realized she hadn’t been joking at all when she’d said she didn’t have to kill him. She had been fully prepared to do so. It made him wonder how she could possibly be so cold. Even soldiers had trouble killing for the first time. But then, maybe it wouldn’t be her first time. _

_ “First, talk to them.” Tyrion answered. Lady Stark might be used to killing, but Tyrion certainly wasn’t. And even if he had wanted to he wouldn’t have been able to do so himself. He was short and had difficulty walking. Tyrion simply wasn’t made to wield a sword. No, his skills lay in words. Perhaps they would not be enough for such a position he found himself in; with his sister wanting to kill him and all. But it was all he had. For now. _

_ “Talk to them?” Lady Stark repeated, frowning. Clearly she didn’t think that would get them anywhere. Maybe she was right. “Your sister tried to get me to kill you, and you’re going to talk to her?” She sounded both annoyed and amused. Tyrion wondered what exactly she thought he should do, seeing as how she thought his plan wasn’t good enough. _

_ “What would you have me do, Lady Stark? Kill her?” Tyrion sighed in frustration as he saw her fully considering and likely agreeing with the idea. But he had lost enough family as it was, and the family that he did have mostly despised him. Still, even those that hated him provided company. Her next words startled him. _

_ “She is your family, Tyrion.” Lady Stark began. Her voice was softer this time. “I understand if you can’t do it.” He realized she was saying this because she thought he must view his family the same way she did hers: as the most important thing in the world. She took a breath, her voice became hard again. “But don’t get in my way.” It had sent a chill through him; her words.  _

_ “Why are you letting me go?” Tyrion asked her suddenly. True she had gotten the information she had wanted from him. But still. “Aren’t you afraid I will try to stop you? That I’ll warn my siblings of your plans of vengeance?” She had plenty of reason to keep him there as a hostage. Although Jamie, no doubt, would realize this and attempt to come and collect him. But then her husband and daughters would become hostages as well. This was turning into a messy business. Things would only go well for Lady Stark if he kept his mouth shut. Or somehow prevented her family in King’s Landing from becoming trapped there. _

_ “I think you’ll do the right thing.” She said. Her unwavering eye contact felt unnerving and Tyrion had to force himself not to look away. “I think you don’t want anyone else to get hurt.” She continued. Speaking as though she knew all she said about him was fact. As though she had known him for a long time. “And now that you know that your sister is out for Stark blood, I think, when you’re back in King’s Landing, you will do everything you can to protect my family.” _

She was right. He did not want to see any more blood spilled over the disturbing secret between his siblings. Especially the blood of children. But he had to talk to Jamie. He had to confront him. Tyrion was silent for the longest moment. For he had no idea how to broach the strange abnormal subject. Jamie spoke first.

“What’s wrong?” It wasn’t as though Tyrion was hiding how perturbed he was. “I knew you didn’t go back to Winterfell by choice.” Jamie berated himself. He was always so protective of Tyrion. He had trouble reconciling the images of his brother as his friend and his brother as trying to murder a boy no older than twelve. They just didn’t fit. “What did that woman do to you?” There was a growl to his voice.

“‘That woman’?” Tyrion asked, momentarily confused.

“That Catelyn Stark.” Jamie seemed to have expected him to know exactly who he had been talking about. “She seemed like such a frigid, cruel person. Did you see her with her children?” He shook his head. “I’m surprised you got away...” He trailed off when he saw Tyrion’s expression. Perhaps Tyrion had not known Lady Stark for all that long, but Jamie had gotten her completely wrong. For some reason Tyrion felt he had to defend her. Maybe because he had grown to respect her.

“Lady Stark is a fine woman,” Tyrion snapped. “And yes, I have seen her with her children; and I can tell you their family is far more normal than ours.” Much closer too. He felt a pang of longing. Jamie seemed absolutely speechless. “But while we’re on the subject of cruel and frigid people, I never knew you were capable of trying to kill children.” He saw his brother stiffen considerably. Jamie said nothing, probably wondering just how much Tyrion actually knew about what had happened. “I know about you and Cersei,” He informed him tersely.

“You don’t understand,” Jamie looked away. Tyrion was a bit surprised his brother wasn’t being more defensive. But maybe he was as ashamed as he should be. “She’s my twin; the bond between us is--”

“I don’t care about that.” Tyrion stopped him. “You can love whoever you want.” As long as it stayed an affair strictly between people, did it really matter to everyone else? Tyrion decided as long as they were happy and weren’t hurting anyone else he didn’t care. The problem was they were hurting someone else. “But the lengths you two have gone to try to cover it up...” Tyrion shook his head in disgust. “That I care about.”

“Do you have any idea what Baratheon would do to her if he knew?” Jamie asked coldly. “He’d kill her and her children. So forgive me if I would rather one Stark boy die then our sister and her children.” Tyrion rolled his eyes.

“And who told you that? Cersei?” Jamie glared at his brother. “That is a gross exaggeration. He would be angry, he might even want to kill her, or at least hurt her. But you honestly think he could? You think father would let him? Especially with the crown so far in debt to us.” The King would have little options available even with this information. In all probability he’d send her back to Castley Rock and then drink himself to death. Any other action would probably lead to war with the Lannisters; and that would not be something he would want. “As for the children, I doubt Baratheon is cold hearted enough to even think of killing them.” Jamie blinked at the insult. Then he grew angry.

“You have no idea how things might play out if he knew.” Jamie growled. 

“And you think Cersei does?” Tyrion through back. Although, perhaps Jamie was right. After all, Baratheon might not be as sensible as Tyrion was. He did seem to have a dreadful temper. “Besides, she’s brought this mess upon herself. With a little help from you.” Tyrion said coldly. “Robbing the King of a true heir and breaking her marriage vows. And now attacking the Starks, and me.” Jamie opened his mouth to retort then stopped when Tyrion had finished his sentence.

“You?” Jamie asked his brow knit. It was obvious now that Jamie, did not, in fact, know anything of their sister’s plans.

“She tried to frame me for the attempted assassination of the Stark boy.” Tyrion told him dryly. Jamie balked. “Don’t look so surprised, Jamie. She’s always blamed me for our mother’s death, you know that.” So did their father actually, but he seemed more intent on making Tyrion’s life a living hell rather than just sending him there through death.

“I didn’t know.” Jamie said, he looked down and his fists clenched. There was silence between them. “What are you going to do?” It was the same thing Lady Stark had asked him. He hadn’t been entirely sure when she had asked him, and even now he wasn’t sure.

“Go back to King’s Landing,” Tyrion answered with a sigh. “Try to protect the other Starks from Cersei.” 

“Why do you seem to care so much about them?” Jamie almost sounded angry. Why indeed. Perhaps in part because they seemed like the family he’d always wished his had been. For he knew he could never expect overt, if any, affection from his father. Catelyn Stark certainly was sparse and subtle in showing her love to her children, but when she did her children seemed so incredibly happy that it was worth waiting for it. Tyrion could still picture Bran when he and Jon had been explaining his warg connection to his mother. She had given him the kindest smile and Bran looked as though he’d received the best gift in the world. So maybe it was because he envied what they had. Maybe it was because he found himself respecting Catelyn Stark rather easy. Strong and confident; Tyrion wondered idly if Cersei could have turned out more like her, if she had been born with an ounce of empathy for others. But it was also for another reason. A rather silly one.

“Because the eldest Stark girl rescued me,” Tyrion smiled at the memory. “I think I ought to return the favor.” Jamie looked at him as though he were crazy. Maybe he was for feeling that way. She hadn’t actually ‘saved’ him in any way, not really. But she had helped him, not out of pity but simply because he was another human being. And when she had looked at him, he saw no disgust in her eyes. Tyrion knew he was not very pleasant to look at, and he had gotten quite used to the looks people gave him. But Sansa Stark had looked at him the same as she would anyone else. He liked that.

***

They had barely gone a day’s journey when the raven had arrived, bearing information Tyrion was already mostly aware of thanks to Bran Stark. The King had died, and Ned Stark had been imprisoned. Robb Stark had been gathering his armies and was moving south quickly. Things were falling apart at the seams and Tyrion hoped he would not be too late by the time he reached King’s Landing. 

Their father had contacted them and Jamie was told to stop the Stark heir from moving any farther south. Tyrion knew it would not end well. He had met Robb, and he was not a boy who would be playing at war, with no idea as to what he was doing. No, to Tyrion it seemed he had been preparing his whole life for something like this.

Tyrion was not part of the battle. Jamie was. He heard news of Jamie’s capture and a sense of dread washed over him. Tyrion figured Lady Stark or her son would probably not kill him, for he was more valuable alive than dead. Besides, Ned Stark and her two daughters were hostages at the capitol. But then again he had tried to kill her boy. So another part of him thought that her heart might overrule her head. A day later Tyrion knew that her head had won. For Jamie was reported to still be alive. Tyrion bet Lady Stark wished she had kept him as a hostage. But then, remembering her words, maybe not. She was a woman he could barely understand. Her motives were ever clear, but her reasoning was rather different than Tyrion’s.

Tyrion travelled south as fast as he could. He was accompanied by a few sellswords, and as a small party they were able to move swiftly. Then another raven arrived. Ned Stark had been killed. Executed by the young new King. Tyrion felt himself tremble as he read the letter. Not out of fear, perhaps not really out of anger though. All he could think was that he was too late. That when he arrived there would be no one there to protect. Ned was dead, and according to the letter Arya had escaped. That left Sansa. 

He demanded they move faster than before, and Tyrion was glad to be a Lannister as he had enough gold to trade out for new horses every time they had to stop for supplies. He couldn’t be too late with Sansa. He just couldn’t. Tyrion thought back to what his brother had asked him. Why was he so concerned for the Starks? According to Lady Stark family was most important. It should come above all else. Tyrion had never really thought that way. But then he wondered whether blood was what made them family, or whether it was something else. Family came first because they were worth being placed there. Tyrion wasn’t sure his own family had that worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	7. Jon

Jon, and as such everyone else, had known something had happened. Bran’s vision had told them as much. Arya had escaped; Bran had been with her when she had, but Bran didn’t know the whereabouts of Sansa and their father. All he said was that Sansa had held off the Hound so that Arya could escape.

Then a raven had come. Two to be precise, one right after another. The first was from one of their father’s men informing them of his imprisonment. The second was from Sansa, and it practically screamed that something was horribly wrong. Jon couldn’t help but feel proud of Sansa though, for she had found a rather clever way to inform them of Arya’s escape. Yet he felt sad, not just that she was in such a situation, but because she never seemed to think about herself. Jon was the one who made sure she was taken care of, and now he couldn’t. The minute Robb had seen the letters he had mobilized the men. He would not stand for what had happened. Determined to take back their father and sisters, Robb prepared to leave.

Neither of them thought it would turn into a war. They figured the minute the new King saw how far the Stark’s were willing to go for one of their own he would promptly hand over their family members. And then they would be content to stay in the north and completely ignore the south.

To say Jon was worried would be an understatement. His family was in danger and there was nothing he could do. Worse still he would not be going with Robb. Jon had known this and agreed wholly with the reasoning. He needed to be at Winterfell, to protect it and take care of Bran and Rickon. But that didn’t mean Jon liked it. Their mother would be accompanying Robb, and that gave Jon some level of reassurance. 

But this meant that all Jon could do was wait. Wait to hear what was happening. Bran was quite useful in this respect, as Robb had taken Grey Wind and Lady had followed after their mother. A battle did take place. Robb won, and they had even captured Jamie Lannister. It seems the older Lannister had gone up to meet his brother Tyrion when the dwarf was heading back south, and so was with the Lannister army in the north.

Jon was worried about Bran though. He had been with Grey Wind during the battle; not controlling him as he had with Summer, but seeing through his eyes. Bran had seemed trapped for some time before his eyes returned to normal. But immediately upon returning to himself he promptly emptied his stomach.

“Blood...so much blood.” 

Jon had no idea what it was like to rip a man’s throat out with your teeth, but that was what Bran had experienced. Bran had been a little quieter than usual after that. Not that Bran was a big talker, he was the quietest out of all of them, but Jon could tell the difference between normal Bran silence and abnormal Bran silence. Jon had held him, and Bran had let him for quite some time. This was also cause for worry, as usually Bran, like Arya, would refuse to be held.

Jon was also worried about Rickon. He could tell he missed their mother, but his pride would prevent him from saying anything or from seeking out Jon’s comfort. But Jon still felt the need to provide it; he didn’t want Rickon to be neglected. Rickon’s hair was growing long, not having been cut for some time. Jon thought about fixing that, but when he brushed his younger brother's hair it reminded him of Sansa, and he couldn’t bring himself to cut it off. Rickon didn’t seem to mind, so Jon left it.

Rickon had a great sense of pride even at his young age. Jon had tried to take care of him when he was a baby, but unlike with Sansa, Rickon did not accept Jon’s comfort as easily. He had learned, likely from his observations of Robb, that tears were weakness. So Jon knew that even though Rickon missed their mother he would never say anything or seek out Jon intentionally. 

Jon had passed by Rickon’s room one evening and heard him sniffling. Knowing Rickon would be ashamed to be seen so broken and sad Jon tried to just leave him be. But his feet wouldn’t seem to move. Turning the knob quietly, Jon opened Rickon’s door and entered his brother’s room. Rickon was crying, tears running down his cheeks and snot dripping from his now red nose. 

“I’m not crying.” Rickon sniffled. But he made no attempt to hide his tears or wipe them away. Jon climbed onto the bed, resting his back against the headboard, and then pulled Rickon into his lap. His arms wrapping tightly around him, Rickon’s head tucked under his chin.

“I know you’re not.” Jon whispered softly. He held Rickon for what seemed like hours as he cried. Stroking Rickon’s auburn hair and back gently, the room was silent except for Rickon’s sobs and sniffling. 

It would never occur to Jon that while he comforted and provided a pillar for his siblings to lean on, he himself rarely cried, and when he did so he would never think of seeking out the same kind of comfort he provided for the rest of them.

Just as his mother, Jon ran Winterfell efficiently although perhaps more leniently and kindly. Or at least that was what he had heard whispered by one of the servants at one point. Jon had reprimanded the girl for speaking ill of the Lady Stark, and the girl was quick to apologize and say she meant no harm; that they all loved Lady Catelyn very much. 

His mother. Perhaps she was not the most loving or affectionate mother; cold as ice and hard as steel. Just like a Stark. But Jon knew she loved them, she just seemed to be unable to express it the way others would. Sometimes, a long time ago before Sansa was born, Jon would catch his mother scrutinizing him, seemingly looking for something. He also felt and saw a great amount of tension between his mother and father. He had never asked, and he never would. The past was the past; all you could do was learn from it and move on.

When he wasn’t worrying about his younger siblings, Jon sometimes worried about Robb. He was so serious and held so much anticipation and excitement for battle, that Jon just knew he would end up acting rashly and getting injured. And this time he wouldn’t be there to patch his brother up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short chapter this time, sorry QQ  
> Thank you guys so much for reading and for all your comments and kudos!!!


	8. Arya

Arya hated this. She hated that she had ran. Escape had been easy after Sansa had stalled the Hound, but all Arya felt was anger. At herself and at everyone in King’s Landing. Despite the guards searching for her, Arya was able to evade them easily, largely because she had been wearing trousers when she escaped, so she could pass for a boy. Nymeria wasn’t hard to hide either surprisingly enough. Arya had rubbed mud all over her; her fur became matted and her color darkened until she looked like any other stray, for the dire wolf was far from done growing so her size was still small enough to pass for a dog.

There was so much anger coursing through her Arya thought she might explode. There was sadness at one point, but like her mother she converted all that energy into fury. Because no matter what, even with her sister and father trapped, and her all alone in a strange city Arya would not cry. No, this wasn’t enough to make her cry.

She wished she had stayed and fought. Clutching the sword Robb had given her, which she had aptly named Needle, she thought back to that moment. Arya hadn’t wanted to run. But when Sansa ordered her to go, when she had invoked those words of family and duty, Arya felt she had to obey. Not because Sansa was her sister but because in that moment Sansa looked exactly like their mother. Arya always obeyed her mother.

The thought of her mother brought a wave of loneliness and Arya placed her arms around Nymeria’s neck, burying her face in her fur. But she refused to cry. She supposed she had to get out of the city, but that looked quite a bit harder than getting out of the caste had been. But she needed to get back to Winterfell, to Robb and her mother. Robb would know what to do.

Sounds of shouting caught her attention and following the noise she found herself in the square. It was filled with people, and being as small as she was, she couldn’t see anything. Climbing up onto a statue she looked out over the crowd of people. Her blood ran cold. It was her father. It was his trial. Sansa was there too, grim faced, but eyes surveyed the crowd searching; and then they found her and locked with Arya’s. 

Their eyes disengaged when their father was asked to speak. It burned Arya to see him admit to something she was sure he was not guilty of. She knew what Sansa would say: That it was necessary if he wished to survive, and that he had to survive. For family. While Arya understood and agreed, knowing that in his place she probably would have done the same, she still hated to see him surrender his pride. Especially to such a man as Joffrey. Arya hated the little prince, now king. 

The sentence was read and Arya felt relieved that her father would be safe. But then suddenly he wasn’t. Suddenly that annoying blond haired bastard sentenced him to death. Arya heard Sansa scream out a ‘no,’ and saw her being held back by the guards. Arya’s hand went to the hilt of her blade, but Sansa’s eyes searched for her’s again and they locked. Just a small shake of the head. No. Arya wanted to disobey her sister. To run through the crowd and stick her sword through the man who was about to behead her father. But Arya knew Sansa was right. They would all end up dead if she did that.

Arya couldn’t look away when the ax came down on her father’s neck. It felt as though time had stopped. Her gaze swept from her father’s headless body to her sister once more. Sansa’s eyes were filled with tears; Arya didn’t know it at the time, but her’s were as well. Her sister mouthed one word to her then. It could have been ‘run,’ but Arya read ‘Robb.’ Yes. Robb would know what to do, Robb would fix this. She would go to Winterfell and she would get him, and together they would avenge their father.

Jumping down from the statue, Arya turned her back on the gruesome sight and ran out of the square, Nymeria bounding along behind her. It was funny, when she looked at her wolf it looked like Nymeria was crying. Her arm was suddenly grabbed and she found herself yanked into a side alley. Her hand flew to her sword. Then she saw who it was.

“Yoren.” She had met him before. He was part of the Night’s Watch just like her Uncle Benjen. “What are you doing here?”

“Recruiting for the Wall.” He answered shortly. “Come on.” He pulled her along after him. “I can take you back to Winterfell.” He was heading back to the Wall after all. Things were perhaps starting to look a little brighter for Arya.

***

They were outside the city walls. Several hours from the city in fact. Arya had seen the recruits and Yoren had introduced her as Arry, a boy recruited for the Night’s Watch. They made camp for the night, the sky now black and dotted with stars. Arya sat alone at last just a little ways away, her back to the fire. Nymeria was curled up next to her.

In her mind the image of her father’s head detaching from his body wouldn’t seem to leave her. She could feel the tears welling up. Arya wasn’t enough like Robb though. To her utter annoyance she could never seem to never cry. She would never do it in front of anyone, so she was pretty sure none of her siblings knew. Not that she cried often. But now, after what had happened, Arya thought perhaps it wasn’t weak to cry this time. She heard the crunch of leaves behind her and furiously she wiped the tears from her eyes.

“I was wondering when you’d fall apart.” Yoren said as he lowered himself onto the ground next to her. Arya sniffed, trying to sound annoyed. But her voice sounded hollow, even to her own ears.

“Stark’s don’t ‘fall apart,’” Arya replied hotly. He laughed. Then his face turned serious.

“It’s not weakness to cry at such a time, child,” Arya snorted. Yoren frowned. “You just saw your father die.” He reached out a hand and patted her back gently. Comfortingly. He was treating her like a child. True Arya was in fact a child, but she didn’t want to be treated like one. Her family never treated her like one. Only outsiders did. Maybe that was why she didn’t like outsiders all that much.

“Yes, but the rest of my family is alive.” Arya knew she sounded like she was trying to convince herself that everything was okay. “Sansa’s counting on me. It’s my duty to get back to Winterfell, to get to Robb and my mother, to my family.” Yoren watched her with curiosity. “What?” She asked, finally her voice sounding irritated instead of strained.

“I thought you were a Stark.” Yoren commented, a smile gracing his features, as though he found her words rather funny or peculiar.

“I am!” Arya practically yelled. Her temper flared at his words and her fists clenched. 

“For a Stark you certainly seem to live by your mother’s House words.” That was true enough. Arya had never thought much about whether living by the Tully House words meant she was less of a Stark. 

“My mother is a Stark.” She corrected, still angry about his accusation. She thought about what he had said though. About her living by her mother’s words. But the words of the north always seemed rather silly, especially when the world was the way it was. She and Robb had talked about it once. About the Stark House words. Winter is coming. “Well, they seem rather pointless now don’t they?” Arya was calmer now.

“What do you mean?” Yoren looked at her questioningly.

“Winter is already here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Since last chapter was short here's another short one...  
> Originally I think it was Ned who Arya locked eyes with, but since he'd dying anyway and this story is about the siblings I changed it to Sansa...  
> QQ


	9. Catelyn

Dead. He was dead. Ned Stark was dead. The only man she had ever loved was dead.

When she heard the news Catelyn thought she was going to cry; would sob like she had all those years ago. But tears didn’t come. Perhaps she had none left. Perhaps she had used them all in her youth. Her knees did buckle when she read the letter. Her face had contorted in anguish, horror, and intense fury. Robb had immediately taken it from her to see what could possibly bring his mother to her knees like that.

Robb’s eyes scanned the parchment. His face darkened, he looked murderous, and he crushed the letter in his hands. Throwing it to the ground he exited their tent. Momentarily her own pain was forgotten and Catelyn got to her feet and followed after him, unsure as to what he planned on doing. And she knew he was going to do something. It was dark outside, the sun having set hours ago. But the camp was well lit with torches.

“Have you executed the prisoners yet?” Robb asked. The guardsman shook his head. “Good.” His voice sounded cold. Catelyn followed Robb across camp to where the prisoners were. They had caught at least fifty. Fifty cowards who had put down their swords in the hope of being spared. Catelyn had agreed with Robb that they would need to be killed. 

“My Lord,” the soldier who was guarding the miserable men greeted. “We were just about to follow your orders.” Robb waved a hand and the man was silenced.

“They’re not to be killed.” Catelyn blinked. There was no reason to keep them alive, especially after learning Ned had been killed. She thought if anything Robb would want to kill them himself, for some sense of retribution. Then he spoke. “Gouge out their eyes.” The soldier looked shocked. “Every single one of them. Except for him.” Robb pointed to one of the larger, more healthier looking men. “Leave him with one eye. And then send them back to King’s Landing.” Robb’s words dripped with venom, but for a second Catelyn thought she could hear a smile in his voice. As though he would gain pleasure from their mutilation. Catelyn wouldn’t protest against her son’s orders. Not in front of the men. Perhaps later, in private.

“Yes, your lordship.” The soldier nodded, although he looked just as perturbed as Catelyn felt. She could understand a need for vengeance, but Catelyn believed in necessity and efficiency. And what Robb was doing was neither. Not really. Catelyn’s lips formed a thin line.

“Robb,” Catelyn started, but he had already turned and was walking toward where Jamie Lannister was tied. Jamie looked up as they approached, clearly trying to appear unaffected by his capture. Catelyn knew better. The fact that he had made so many crude remarks to her showed just how scared he really was. He was just putting on a brave front. A good one, but not good enough. Robb came to a stop in front of him. Jamie’s eyes moved from him to her.

“Here for me are you?” Jamie asked, giving that annoying smirk; the same one Joffrey had. “Your son not warming your bed well enough?” Catelyn’s hand itched to slap him, to wipe that disgusting smile off his face; but she didn’t. In fact her expression didn’t change at all. 

“We both know the only bed you warm is your sisters, Lannister.” Catelyn replied, her voice flat and chilled. Jamie tensed at her words, and then smiled. It wasn’t a real smile though. It was the one someone would use when they wanted to hide just how nervous they were. Catelyn’s gaze flickered to her son. Robb had yet to say anything. Instead he was looking down at Jamie as though he were watching some kind of small insignificant insect.

“Your bitch of a sister and bastard of a son killed my father.” The way he said it sent a shiver down Catelyn’s spine. He didn’t sound angry. He didn’t sound cold. No, Robb spoke as if he were relaying some trivial fact. It was the dead calmness and the fact that his tone didn’t fit his words that was so disconcerting. Jamie felt it too.

Catelyn could only watch as Robb left his position in front of the Lannister to approach a nearby brazier. Several fire pokers stuck out, and Robb casually pulled one from the fire. Turning back, Robb went to crouch in front of Jamie. Jamie had the sense to look scared this time, instead of holding up that haughty facade he’d had since he had been captured. Robb grasped Jamie’s chin with one hand, his frozen blue eyes looking the Lannister over.

“You really do have a handsome face, don’t you?” Robb smiled wickedly. And then he pressed the hot red end of the poker into the side of Jamie’s face. Catelyn could hear the sound of his flesh sizzling. Jamie cried out in pain, but that only seemed to make Robb’s grip tighten. Catelyn could see Jamie begin to bleed as Robb’s nails dug into his chin. The sound of Jamie’s cries brought a crowd of soldiers, wanting to know what was going on.

Catelyn had known what Robb was going to do the minute he walked towards the fire. Part of her knew she should stop him. He was too young to have such malice, and ultimately vengeance would need to be taken on Cersei and Joffrey, not on Jamie who had nothing to do with killing Ned. But then another part of Catelyn, the one that had won, had wanted him to do it. Had wanted to do it herself. 

Catelyn could see the twisted smile on her son’s face; none of the men could from their positions. The air was filled with tension. Finally Robb stood. A long strip of burned flesh crossed the side of Jamie’s face, from his ear to the side of his mouth. Robb stood and handed the poker to one of the men. There was complete silence. Then he just walked away. She could see how the crowd gazed at their leader with awe filled faces. Catelyn followed after him.

She entered their tent to see his back towards her. He was just standing there, fists clenched. Grey Wind had stayed in the tent, and was still lying on the furs; his head was raised though, as if he were watching Robb. The entire event worried Catelyn. Largely because of his initial reaction when the war had begun:

_ After the first battle Robb seemed to have disappeared. Catelyn had finally found him a ways out from camp by a large tree. As she approached she could hear him retching. She stopped and waited. Noting how Grey Wind sat obediently by her son, his wolfish eyes cast down; she thought it seemed as though the wolf was feeling the same kind of pain as his master. When he looked up she realized he hadn’t heard her approach. He looked almost mortified for being seen in such a position by her.  _

_ “I’ve never taken a man’s life,” Robb said in way of explanation. Not that Catelyn needed one. She knew very well the sickness that came from killing. Then he gave a weak smile. “I wonder, does it get any easier?” _

_ All Catelyn could do was nod. Then she approached him and wrapped her arms around him. For a moment he was stiff, his arms limp by his sides. Then she felt him return her embrace and he seemed to relax.  _

_ “It won’t happen again.” She heard him whisper. Catelyn wasn’t sure whether he had said it for her or for himself. _

Catelyn expected some kind of similar reaction now. Robb was always one to do what needed to be done; but it was only normal to feel sickened or horrified at what was thought to be necessary.

“Robb,” she spoke softly. “What you did...” Clearly he had thought she was going to reprimand him for he spoke quickly when she trailed off.

“I wanted to send a message.” Robb said darkly. He didn’t sound sick or horrified. He sounded calm and even a little happy. What he said was true though, sending those mutilated men back to King’s Landing would certainly send a message. “And I wanted to hurt them.” He growled.

Catelyn walked up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder, turning him to look at her. She looked up into his young face. Perhaps he was a man, but Catelyn would always see her little boy. Her tough, strong, and determined little boy. Now she realized that image was not fully accurate. Robb was different. Maybe it had happened after that first battle, or maybe he had just needed these circumstances to bring it out in him.

“Robb,” She began again, reaching out to touch his face. “You are a good man-”

“But not a great one.” He said, cutting her off. Catelyn stared at him, unsure as to what he meant. “I can’t be, not now, maybe not ever.” He took a breath and looked her straight in the eye. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive.” Realization dawned. It was her own words thrown back at her. At the time she had said them so that her children would not think their father a fool. She hadn’t realized Robb had taken them so to heart. Catelyn frowned. The way Robb was looking at her made her think he thought she was disappointed in him.

“I will always stand beside you.” Catelyn said quietly; but her words were sincere. Trying to reassure him. 

“I enjoyed it.” He whispered. It was an admission. Catelyn’s eyes widened, but just barely. Robb wouldn’t notice though because he was looking away. He couldn’t seem to face her. “When I was sick that day, it wasn’t because I had killed.” Looking back up at her she saw her own eyes staring back at her. “It was because I liked it. And I knew I shouldn’t. But tearing apart another man with my blade,” He shook his head. “I loved it.” Catelyn didn’t know what to say. “There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there?” Robb asked; his words were so quiet she could barely hear them. 

For the second time, Catelyn thought something was wrong. No, she knew something was wrong. At least part of her thought so. Another part of her though, recognized that she herself had felt some sick pleasure from killing those two men all those years ago. Not during the attack true, but some time afterwards she had. Catelyn searched his eyes and saw his soul. There was blood-lust there. This was why she needed to be there she realized. Because she knew that if Jon had come he would have tried to fix his brother; he would not have known any better. But Catelyn did. And she knew this could not be fixed. She knew Robb was good, so she knew she would be able to help him reign in these feelings. For historically all the greatest generals and warriors had the taste for blood; yet all the worst kings did as well.

Looking into his face Catelyn saw he was afraid. Not of his own actions, and certainly not of the war. But of her. He feared she would reject him. Catelyn had known her children looked up to her, but until now she hadn’t truly recognized just how much they cared about her opinion of them. How high they had placed her in their lives. She almost found it funny though, for she had taught them that family stayed together no matter what; so how could Robb ever think she would turn away from him?

“Do you know why you act?” Catelyn asked him suddenly. “Do you know how you make your choices?”

“Family.” Robb answered. “Duty.” His words were not merely a hollow repetition of what he had been told as a child. No, Robb said them with conviction. He believed them. “Honor.” Catelyn smiled kindly.

“Then nothing else matters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!!


	10. Robb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb reaches the Twins, has a talk with Lord Frey, and marries to secure an alliance.

They were calling him King in the North. In all honesty, Robb liked it. For Robb held some sense of ambition, and the idea of bringing independence to the north appealed to him greatly. He would find Arya, take back Sansa, avenge his father, and then give the final middle finger to the throne by breaking away completely. Robb had been already planning on refusing to pay tax to the south or follow orders from there, essentially forming an independent state; but the title of ‘King’ made it that much sweeter. He had thought about taking the Iron Throne; but he would prefer to have Stannis as an ally in the defeat of the Lannisters, and besides Robb didn’t really want anything to do with the south.

Robb’s brutality towards the prisoners, and his marking of the Lannister surprisingly did not turn any of his men against him or cause them to whisper that he was mad or sadistic. Instead they seemed to respect him far more. Although they didn’t know he had enjoyed it. His mother said their reaction may be because such actions were normally only taken by much older seasoned generals; and that those his age were usually more squeamish and reluctant to treat their enemy in such a way. She had also told him, quite seriously when they were alone, that he must keep these violent and bloodthirsty behaviors on the battlefield. Robb understood what she meant, and it had been what he himself had been afraid of. That he would react in such a way towards his family, or towards his own men. He knew he was incapable of hurting one of his siblings. But some small part of him wondered ‘what if?’ So he had to harness this, and channel it towards his enemy:

_That night after the first battle, Robb had needed to get away. He couldn’t let anyone see him like that. So he’d gone out of camp. He’d leaned his back against a large tree, and finally let the huge grin spread across his face. He was sure his eyes were wild. And when he looked down at his blood stained hands he had felt his blood sing. He’d never felt like that before. He suddenly saw Jon in his mind’s eye. His twin. The smile fell from his face. Was it true? Jon was the light of day while Robb was blackest night? Jon good, Robb evil. He knew he shouldn’t feel the way he did. No one was supposed to enjoy hurting others. He felt sick. He didn’t want to be evil. He didn’t want to be that way. Fear gripped him as he realized he could never let anyone know. He couldn’t let them know. Especially Jon._

_“What the hell is wrong with me?” He whispered. Looking down at Grey Wind, he was glad to see yellow, instead of blue, eyes looking up at him. Then he had been sick, violently expelling the contents of his stomach_.

He had told his mother. Of his feelings. But only because she had herself witnessed them, and Robb felt he owed her an explanation. She hadn’t left. Hadn’t been afraid or horrified by him. It was a relief.

***

Their march south had been long, and they still were not even fully halfway to King’s Landing. In part it was because of the huge size of their party; the other was because of the barricades of men the Lannister’s kept placing in front of them. Robb continuously would knock them down; but he couldn’t help but think Tywin Lannister’s strategy was to simply throw as many men at Robb as he could and hope that outnumbering them would be enough. But Tywin’s gold mines could only buy him men, not skill. Skilled men could be bought, but there were few good ones who had so little pride they would take gold as a reason to fight.

Although perhaps the old general had realized such a strategy was useless against Robb. For Tyrek and Lancel Lannister had been commanding two of the different garrisons that had stood in Robb’s way. They were poor commanders, and Robb defeated them each with little casualties. Robb had fought both of them himself in the two different battles. They had died the same way as his father had. On their knees and their head cut from their shoulders. The only reason Robb had not killed Jamie Lannister when he had first caught him was because Jamie was the heir to the Lannister lands and title, and as such held a certain amount of value. That and his mother had pointed out his fate was likely tied to Sansa’s. Tywin also seemed to care about his eldest son, and as such Robb decided he was more valuable alive than dead. Maybe he could also be traded for Sansa.

Now they had come as far as the Twins; ruled by Lord Walder Frey. The easiest and fastest path to King’s Landing was through Frey’s territory. But Robb doubted the man would simply ignore him as he led his troops through. He would need to have an audience with the man. His mother warned him that he was foul tempered, hated the Tully’s, and could care less about the Starks. So he would not join Robb out of honor or good will. Maybe for an ample amount of gold; but Robb had none to spare. Besides, Robb had a better idea of how to win the man to his side.

***

Walder Frey was an ill-mannered man, and Robb disliked him at once. The old man had agreed to meet with him and Robb made sure it was sooner rather than later. Immediately Robb decided the man was stupid as well. For he had allowed Robb to keep his sword upon entering and allowed Grey Wind to accompany him. But perhaps Lord Frey had not heard how deadly Robb was with a sword and how quick and vicious his familiar was. 

“Need my help do you, boy?” Lord Frey sniffed. Robb’s expression was indifferent, almost bored as the man spoke. “Well, I’ll need some reassurance. Our family’s should be tied together, your youngest sister can marry one of my sons--” Robb didn’t let him finish; his demands were completely ridiculous.

“No.” He replied flatly; Lord Frey blinked in surprise and then grew angry, but Robb continued. “You will give me men, you will give me gold,” the old man’s face had turned red and he sputtered how Robb must be ‘crazy.’ “And in return,” Robb cut in, his voice raised to drown out the old man’s objections. “Your grandson will be King of the North.” That shut him up.

“King of...” Lord Frey’s words broke off. Robb could see the anger drain and the unrestrained joy and desire at the very prospect replace it. Then he seemed to reign in his excitement. “So sure you’re going to win, boy?” His voice wavered on the disrespectful title of ‘boy.’ Robb smirked in response. Lord Frey seemed to find his expression disturbing though as Robb saw a flash of fear in his eyes.

“Us northerners are warriors, hardened by the rough environment and trained in killing early,” His voice was cool, his words spoken as though they were fact. “These southerners are soft and unrefined, at least from what I’ve seen on the battlefield.” Robb smiled again, his eyes narrow as his face contorted into a dark chilling grin. It seemed to strike a chord with Lord Frey. “I’ll win.”

Lord Frey had tensed and although he tried to hide it, he could see the old man was nervous. Perhaps some would call Robb’s level of confidence arrogance; to think that he would win. But Robb knew the battles would not be easy. He would lose many good men. But in the end Robb was sure he could win. Because he knew he was willing to go farther than his enemy would to attain victory. And he would enjoy it. There was still utter silence in the room. Robb didn’t like waiting. If his enemy wouldn’t engage, then he would.

“I’ll marry one of your daughters, right here, right now.” Lord Frey’s eyes snapped to his; they were wider than before. “Just so you know I won’t renege on our ‘deal’ once I’ve won.” Lord Frey just stared at him, his mouth half open. “Unless of course, you don’t want to join me. In which case there are plenty of other ways around you.” It could be a threat, but then again maybe not. Robb could commission some ships and sail around and down to King’s Landing. It would be longer and much more trouble than going through Frey’s territory, but it could be done. On the other hand Robb would be able to overpower Frey’s forces--at least eventually. Robb saw how Lord Frey’s eyes were drawn to where Robb’s hand lay casually against the hilt of his sword. As it had been since the start of their meeting. He only seemed to notice it right then though.

He had agreed to Robb’s proposal quickly, and he was all the more eager to accept after Robb had said he would make it official right then and there. Lord Frey had called his daughters and had them line up for Robb to choose. It reminded Robb of cattle being sold at the market. One more reason to despise the ruler of the Twins. Nevertheless, he did need to choose one. Robb’s gaze moved over each of them as he searched for what he was looking for. He found it.

“You,” he nodded towards one of the girls; she could only be about a year younger than him. “What’s your name?” Robb saw how her eyes flitted to her father, asking silent permission. When the old man gave a short nod she stepped forward and bowed her head.

“Arwyn, your grace.” Her father had introduced him as King of the North; the title of ‘boy’ having been quickly discarded and almost made up for by how many times Lord Frey had called him ‘your grace.’

Lord Frey seemed rather surprised at his choice. Arwyn Frey was not what was considered beautiful. She certainly wasn’t hideous, but she was rather plain. Especially compared to some of her other sisters. But Robb was not looking for beauty. 

“How would you like to be Queen of the North?” Robb asked her. He saw her tense and her gaze quickly looked to her father. Clearly she was terrified of Lord Frey.

“If it pleases you, your grace.”

***

True to his word, Robb married Arwyn the next day. It was a short and efficient affair, just as all of them had wanted it to be. Now all that was left was to consummate it and send her back to Winterfell. They were now in Robb’s tent. Alone. But the poor girl, despite her brave front, was shaking. And while Robb was a terror on the battlefield and to his enemies, he wasn’t unkind.

“I won’t touch you unless you want me to.” Robb intoned. She looked surprised and also distrustful. So Robb stayed where he was, seated on the side of the bed, while Arwyn stood at least a meter away. 

“We have to consummate.” She reminded him, voice small. Robb snorted.

“If they want a bloodied sheet I can give them that.” Again she was surprised. Then he could see that something had occurred to her.

“Is your taste not for women?” Her voice was a whisper and her face colored as she said the words. Robb threw his head back and laughed. He figured one of her sisters had probably married such a man and had relayed the experience to her younger siblings. Robb stood and walked towards her. She flinched when he stopped to stand in front of her. She probably expected him to hit her for such an accusation.

“My taste is for battle.” He answered. Arwyn looked up at the sound of his voice, for it was rather kind, and a hint of humor still lingered there. Reaching out, Robb took a strand of her hair between his fingers. It was soft. “I won’t deny that I want you,” it wasn’t really a lie. Robb did find her pretty, especially when she had blushed. It was rather cute. “But I won’t take you by force.” He dropped the strand. She looked like she wanted to say something, but clearly she felt it might be offensive; so Robb just watched her expectantly, waiting for her to speak.

“...I heard about what you did to those men.” Arwyn began; her eye’s suddenly cast downwards. “I’ve heard… about how fierce you are in battle and how merciless to your prisoners.” She chanced a glance up at him. His expression hadn’t changed. “They’re calling you the Lion Slayer.” Robb couldn’t stop himself from chuckling. He hadn’t heard that yet.

“All I want from you is loyalty.” He told her. The fear seemed to have left her. “I want you to be my family, and to do your duties. And in return I will be good to you, I will be your family and I will do my duties to you. I may be a ‘Lion Slayer,’ but it is only lions I slay. Only my enemies.” He could tell she wanted to believe him, but was having a hard time. He wanted her to believe him. Needed her to. “I won’t ever hurt you.” 

Arwyn sucked in a breath and Robb could see tears come to her eyes. Not sad tears though. What he had said was probably the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her. Robb cupped her cheek in his hand.

“Do you know why I chose you?” Robb asked her. She shook her head. “It’s because out of all your sisters, you looked the saddest.” He stroked her cheek softly as her eyes filled with wonderment. “I figured that if anyone wanted to get out from under the thumb of that old bastard, it would be you.”

Arwyn did something then that was rather bold. Robb hadn’t expected it at all. She leaned up and kissed him. It was soft and sweet and chaste; clearly she was inexperienced, but then so was Robb. This was his first kiss. For he had never had any interest in visiting the whore houses as the other men at Winterfell did. Arwyn pulled away and looked up at him shyly; yes, she was pretty. Dipping his head just a little he caught her lips with his own. Robb decided he rather liked kissing. As things progressed Robb found he was enjoying himself almost as much as he did on the battlefield. Almost.

Robb would never tell Arwyn the real reason he had chosen her. Part of him would try to believe that it had been to ‘rescue her.’ Or that in least some part he had done it for her. And he had chosen her because she looked sad. Because out of all her siblings she had looked the most scared of Lord Frey. And Robb knew that if she feared him, then in truth she hated him. If she hated him, then she would not be loyal to him. And if Robb could get her to love him, then she would be loyal to him, and only him. Love was more powerful than fear. He chose her because he could mold her into a Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading!  
> Next week we'll see what's goin' on in Essos with Dany :D


	11. Daenerys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Note: << text >> denotes speech in the Dothraki language, “text” denotes the common tongue.

Dany had seen violence. Seen bloodshed. She’d heard over and over about how Baratheon destroyed her brothers, and heard how her father had been slain. Dany knew then that power was the ability to take a man’s life. In all the world that was what made one powerful. She had thought this when she was just a girl, when she was whisked away across the narrow sea to protect her and her brother from the new King.

Despite their exile her brother, Viserys, had told her they were dragons. That they were special and were above others. Dany had been very young at the time, so she was not expected to think too much about it. Just to accept it. But Dany couldn’t help but think that they could not possibly be above or worth greater than others. For they were beggars. Relying on others for their lives. It was those others that Viserys claimed were beneath them that had control over whether Dany and her brother lived or not. They were the ones with the power.

When Dany thought about it, she decided that blood, while it could hold importance, was far less important than her brother made it out to be. As long as someone had power it didn’t really matter who their father was or whether they were the heir to the greatest dynasty in the world. Dany had mentioned it to her brother once, when he was once again telling her they were special and important.

“It doesn’t matter how many times you say it, Viserys.” Dany had told him. “What matters is whether you actually have power or not.” She did not add the ‘and you don’t’ like she wanted to. Even so he had looked like he was going to hit her. Dany had tensed in response. But he didn’t hit her.

“Maybe you don’t care,” Viserys had snarled. “But I am a dragon.” Dany realized then that he was trying to convince himself. He knew he had no power. He knew his blood was all he had, and he knew it wasn’t enough. Just as Dany did. But Dany refused to try to lie to herself as he did. She would not run from the truth. 

He had been wrong though, she did care. She cared a lot. Which is why she tried to discover what power was. Dany had found it. Attaining it would be another matter. Her marriage to the Dothraki Khal Drogo had only confirmed her understanding of power. For the Dothraki chose their leaders based on strength, and strength was measured by how much blood was spilt. She had also seen her brother’s life taken. Dany wanted that power.

But she was a woman. Sometimes she cursed the gods for making her a girl. Ser Jorah had been kind enough to show her how to wield a knife when she had asked him, but still her gender seemed to hinder her. Her handmaiden, Irri, had told her that killing was only a man’s strength, that women had a great one: their bodies. Dany hated that. The idea of using her body as her weapon irritated her, for truly a woman was giving something up as she ‘fought,’ while a man was taking something. That was not power.

Distastefully, she had used the skills Irri taught her to please Drogo. Then she convinced him to teach her the skill of the blade. He had laughed at her the first time she had broached the subject. Dothraki women were not warriors, they were breeding stock. It had taken all of Dany’s control not to let her anger show. But he had taught her; some at least. She was quick though, and had the body of a dancer; her movements graceful and curved rather than sharp. Perhaps that would make up for any lack of skill.

Dany had seen some of the worst aspects of power though. The Dothraki plundered cities they came across. Raped women, took anything of value, even from the sacred temples, and even killed children on occasion. It had scared Dany.

“How else will you pay an army without gold?” Jorah had said after she had asked him why Drogo would allow his men to do such things. It was true though. Without gold the only thing that could be offered was loot. Apparently women fell into that category as well. But did children really have to die?

<<I do not want some young challenger seeking revenge from every place I take.>> Drogo had told her gruffly. The Dothraki language was still a little unfamiliar to her, but she understood. For power one had to take. Even if it was something they didn’t want. Like the life of a child. But maybe Drogo did want it, maybe his men did too. It was then, and only for the briefest moment, when Dany considered whether she could hold power. She decided yes.

“Perhaps the Dothraki life has hardened you, Khaleesi.” Jorah said to her one day. She’d frowned and asked what he meant. Dany didn’t feel any different. “You used to seem horrified when the warriors took the villages.” He nodded towards the smoking buildings and air filled with cries that lay before them. Dany had just been standing there, watching. “Now you just look, resigned.” 

“No,” she had told him. “Not resigned. Just a little sad at realizing this is necessary. At realizing the world was not how I thought it to be.” He gave her a questioning look. “I used to think that everyone could be equal, that war did not have to be something that frequented our world.”

“And now, Khaleesi?” Jorah asked, he looked sad and she knew he didn’t like seeing the innocent child she used to be disappearing.

“Now, I know that while we are all truly equal, it doesn’t matter. Because as long as people want, there will be war. And want can only be filled by gaining power. Power by nature makes people unequal.” Dany took a breath.

“You are too young to think such things, Khaleesi.” But Dany shook her head. She wasn’t sad; she had spoken all her words as though it were a matter of fact.

“But I am guilty of it too.” She told him. “I want power. And it’s only now after becoming Khaleesi that I realize I will have to hurt other people to get it.” Jorah hadn’t known what to say to her after that. Power was taking. And the ultimate power was death.

She had tried to convince Drogo to fight for the iron throne. But he would not listen to her. Until she was with child she knew he would not. Instead he would lead her further and further away from her goal. Now, Drogo lay dying. Succumbing to an infection of one of his wounds. Another Dothraki had challenged him and lost, but not before he had driven his knife into her Khal’s shoulder. At first he had seemed fine. As though he would recover. Now she knew he would not.

“We should go, Khaleesi.” Ser Jorah warned, gripping her upper arm. “Once the Khal is dead others will fight for his place; and the first thing they will do is kill the wife of the former Khal.” He tried to pull her away from her husband’s dying body, but Dany ripped her arm from his grasp.

“I’m not leaving.” She growled. Sold by her brother to buy a Dothraki army; Dany would not lose what she had gained out of fear of death. “This is my army.” Hearing shouts outside the tent Jorah drew his sword. Dany walked briskly past him and outside.

“Dany!” He hissed. Using her true name instead of her title in frustration. Normally Dany would have been angered by such disrespect. But she knew he did not mean it in such a way, he had simply forgotten himself. Besides, no one had heard. And that was what mattered most.

Outside, the tribe was crowded, making a ring of bodies around the entrance to the Khal’s tent. Dany saw Mago standing out from the rest. Clearly he sought to become Khal. Ser Jorah had followed her out, and was now standing just a ways in front of her, sword still drawn.

“This is turning ugly, Khaleesi.” Jorah told her. She could tell he wanted her to go back inside; or maybe to run. Dany would do neither.

<<For what purpose have you come to see your Khaleesi,>> Dany asked in the Dothraki tongue. She wasn’t as confident as she appeared. Inside she felt her heart pounding; on the outside she appeared regal, calm, cool and collected. For that was how a true ruler would behave.

<<You are not my Khaleesi,>> Mago spat. Dany knew he disliked her. For being foreign and for taking the attention of Drogo. <<Drogo can no longer ride. He is no Khal, so you are no Khaleesi.>> Mago drew his arakh, the long semi-circular scythe like blade gleaming dangerously. Jorah stiffened beside her. The grip on his sword tightened. Dany placed a hand on his shoulder, startling him. Then she moved past him.

<<A Khal must earn his right to rule his tribe,>> Dany informed him. Although she knew he already was well aware of his own people’s laws. <<It must be won through battle.>> Mago scoffed, an ugly smile forming on his face.

<<I have no challenger, whore.>> He spat the word as though it were the foulest of insults, and Dany had a hard time keeping herself from bristling, but she did tightened her jaw. <<And Drogo cannot fight.>> That was true enough. In all probability Drogo was already dead. For he had little time left when Dany had been with him just moments ago.

<<I challenge your rule,>> Dany spoke loudly, so all those there could hear her. <<You are not fit to be Khal.>> She snarled, at last allowing some of her hatred for the man seep into her features. Mago balked, and she heard Ser Jorah’s breath catch behind her.

“Khaleesi,” Jorah was at once beside her. He was looking at her like she was crazy. “This is madness, he will kill you.” He implored.

“Then I will die.” She snapped angrily. Then she held out her hand to him. “Give me your knife.” Jorah wanted to protest further, but with a sharp look from her he drew the blade and placed it in her hands. He shook his head.

<<A woman cannot be a challenger.>> Mago sneered. Having overcome his shock, he now seemed to find her suggestion hilarious as well as ridiculous.

<<There is no law that says that.>> Dany replied flatly. And it was true. Mago knew it too. <<Or are you afraid to die at the hands of a woman?>> She disliked how it ended up being an insult solely due to her gender. But she wanted to goad him, and saying such a thing would. It worked.

<<You will die, whore.>> He smiled, pointing his blade at her. Dany shifted her weight until she was in a fighting stance, her left hand free and held out before her, her right held the knife.

<<Maybe.>> Dany smiled back. 

For a moment she saw how her lack of fear confused him, and then he seemed to dismiss it, as she must be completely mad to challenge a Dothraki warrior. Maybe she was. But then maybe she wasn’t. Dany knew two things that gave her a decent advantage. 

Firstly, the Dothraki arakh was not a weapon that would be useful off horseback. Ser Jorah had mentioned this once to her, saying that it paled in comparison to the sword in one on one combat. Dany was using a knife. It was smaller than a sword, but it worked in the same way. 

Secondly, he would underestimate her. Mago would not take this fight seriously, and he did not know she did in fact know how to use her weapon. He probably thought of her like any other Dothraki woman. So if she could get close enough and she could be fast enough, she could end it before he had time to realize she was indeed a threat.

He came at her quickly. Slicing his blade through the air, Dany just barely dodged it. She needed to get close though. Dany was faster than he was though. Mago was larger and had considerably more muscle, but it made him slower. So Dany was able to bend and twist away from his attacks, all the while looking for an opening. He seemed to realize if he continued in the way he was they would get nowhere. Quite quickly he moved his blade towards her but as she moved to dodge his blade had stopped short of its target and instead aimed it towards where he had thought she would go. He had been right. The steel sliced across her chest.

Dany had been quick enough to move back, so the cut was not deep. But the skin broke and a long line of red formed under her clavicle, right above her breasts. The pain was instantaneous, and despite its mostly superficial nature the wound sent a wave of hot pain through her. She heard Jorah call her name in worry. A flicker of fear formed, and for a moment she wondered whether she would die here. Then the fire formed. Anger flared from somewhere deep within her. She would not die here. She swapped the knife from her right to her left hand.

This time as Mago attacked she didn’t move. She saw the smugness in his tanned face as he thought she had given up. He moved so that he would make a downward sweep, to cut into her face and create an ‘x’ of blood on her chest. At the last moment though, Dany turned her body to the side, his blade caught her shoulder and the flesh split open. His arm was now straight out in front of her chest. She was close enough. With lightning speed Dany had her knife raised, and flipping the knife so that the blade faced away from her, she stabbed it right into his throat.

She saw his eyes bug out, and with a cough blood spurted from his mouth; some of it splattering onto her face. Mago wasn’t dead yet though. He tried to bring his weapon back towards her, but at the proximity she was with him, and because his strength was draining from him, Dany was able to catch his wrist and pry the weapon from his grasp. Taking his weapon into her own hand, in one swift moment Dany marked him across the chest just as he had to her. There was shock, anger, and fear in his eyes. He fell to his knees and Dany glared down at him. He coughed once more before he fell backwards. Dead. There was silence.

<<The challenger has won.>> Dany called out. Her voice strong. <<But Mago was right, I am not your Khaleesi,>> She looked around at the stunned crowd. She stood before them, covered in both Mago’s and her own blood. Silver hair long and unkempt, and fierce glowing eyes. <<I am your Khal.>>

***

As soon as she entered her tent she felt her knees go weak. It was the blood loss, but it was also something else. She didn’t fall, but Jorah still placed his hands on her upper arms to steady her. Dany could feel herself trembling. Her stomach churned dangerously as she saw the blood on her hands; on her clothes. She didn't want to feel this way. A true Khal would not feel this way.

“Let me look at your wounds, Khalees-” he started. Then corrected himself. “Khal.” Dany let him sit her down and clean the deep burning injury on her shoulder. Now that the fight was over and the adrenaline flushed from her system, the pain was substantial. Gritting her teeth, a small groan of pain escaped her. Jorah looked up apologetically, assuming it was because of him. She felt light headed as he bandaged her shoulder. He then moved to her chest. It had clotted somewhat, the cut having been shallow, but still Jorah cleaned it and bandaged it as well. She was shaking now, no longer merely trembling. Dany knew Jorah had noticed.

“I don’t know why I’m shaking,” it hadn’t been what she wanted to say, and she certainly hadn’t wanted to say it in such a voice. Softly, almost like a question and filled with pain or fear. Maybe both. Jorah didn’t look down on her though.

“You just killed a man.” Jorah replied. He raised his hand and for a moment Dany thought he would touch her cheek, then he seemed to think better of it and placed his hand on her shoulder instead. The uninjured one. “When I killed my first man I was sick for hours afterwards.” He told her. “That you’re only crying shows how strong you are.”

Her hand flew to her cheeks and sure enough there were tears. Dany hadn’t even realized she had been crying. She brushed them away and took a breath. Closing her eyes she told herself she should not feel like this. This was what she had wanted after all. The power to take a man’s life. And she had. Dany hadn’t known, couldn’t have known, just how truly powerful the extinguishing of a life was. Both for the person who lost it and for the person who took it. She realized she was wrong when she thought women gave for their power and men took. Men lost something too. Every time they killed they lost something. It fractured inside them or was stained with their victim’s blood. A price was paid for such power: The soul. 

Dany decided she was willing to pay the price.

***

They were to burn Drogo’s body that night. Dany appeared before them as their Khal, her hair braided and a single bell woven neatly in. A sign of her victory over Mago. She did not wear the attire of a Khaleesi any longer. She would no longer wear skirts or dresses, not while leading her people. 

She didn’t know why she did it, but she placed the three dragon eggs next to her husband’s body. As the pyre began to burn the flames ignited something within her. Perhaps it was her Tygarian blood, but she knew she needed to walk through the fire. It made little sense she knew, but she felt she had to do it. Some force greater than herself was demanding it of her. Dany took a step forward. Then another. She walked towards the fire. Jorah’s voice stopped her momentarily.

“You have just won your army!” He whispered urgently, his eyes wide with fear. For he knew what she intended to do. “Do not die just to be with your Khal!”

“I won’t die.” Dany said, her voice calm and emotionless. She shrugged off Jorah’s concerns and entered the violent orange and yellow flames. 

Dany did not feel the heat. She never did. Standing there she saw her tribe, her people, her army, watching her with wonder. Not sure whether she had truly just committed suicide. She hadn’t. And then she knew why she had been drawn there. Why she had to walk through the fire. Loud cracking noises filled the air, and Dany watched as her petrified eggs fell to pieces. A piercing animalistic cry, long since dead to the world, filled the night air. Then another. And another.

Three dragons. Flapping their wings experimentally they glided on the heat of the flames. There Dany stood, fire licking her body and singing her clothes, her skin unblemished, with three dragons circling around her. Her children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	12. Sansa

He had brought her to see her father’s head. If Joffrey had wanted to horrify her he had been disappointed. Sansa couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight. Her fists clenched and she swore to him and to all the gods that she would avenge him. Showing her Ned Stark’s head did not make her cry, it made her determined. Sansa wasn’t sure what Joffrey’s intentions had been. She knew there was something seriously wrong with the boy-king, but she didn’t know whether it was just pure cruelty, or something else. But it didn’t really matter. Not to Sansa. She would avenge her father. It was as simple as that.

“He got what he deserved.” Joffrey told her, looking up at his handy work. Then he turned to look at her; Sansa had trouble meeting his gaze, for her father’s head seemed to call her eyes to it. He was smiling at her. “Next, I’ll bring you your brother’s.”

“No,” her eyes were hard. “He’ll bring me yours.” Sansa knew she shouldn’t have said it. All it would do was make him angry. Nothing else would change. But the very idea that Robb would lose in battle to  _ him _ , was absurd. Robb didn’t lose.

Joffrey’s face twisted in anger and she saw the dark flash in his eyes. He took two strides towards her, his hand half raised. Sansa, wouldn’t flinch though, or look away. But then he stopped. He bared his teeth in a sneer.

“My mother tells me a man should never hit his wife.” Sansa waited. “We’re to be married after all, so I suppose I shouldn’t strike you.” Cersei had decided their betrothal. During her time at King’s Landing, when her father had been alive, it was far from certain as to whether a union between them would take place. Now, Cersei deemed it absolutely necessary. Robb was King of the North after all. So she supposed that made her a princess. Joffrey wouldn’t let it end like that though. “Ser, Meryn.” He called to the older man behind her. Sansa knew what was going to happen. So did Meryn apparently since he took her shoulder and turned her to him when Joffrey had stepped back.

Her options sped through her mind. She could run or scream. Neither would help. She could kill him; her gaze flitted to his dagger then back up at him. Sansa could grab it and plunge it into his neck. There were two other guards there though, as well as the Hound. She was outnumbered. She could simply block him instead of attacking, but again it would only delay the inevitable. Sansa realized there wasn’t much she could do. Part of her did want to just kill him and run, but then in all likelihood, in a fit of rage, Joffrey might have her beheaded. Which was worse, being beaten or losing her head?

Meryn was still wearing his metal gloves when his hand connected with her face. Her head snapped to the side. There was the sting of pain and she knew it would bruise. Part of his glove had caught on her lip, which was now split. Sansa tasted the iron tang of her own blood. He hit almost as hard as Robb did. Although Sansa suspected Robb went a little easy on her when they practiced hand to hand. Slowly she turned her head. She kept her expression frozen. Lips pressed together and eyes betraying nothing. 

***

Sitting alone in her room, Sansa thought. Joffrey was always protected by his guards. So if she killed him, she would die as well. And Cersei would still live. So would Baelish. Sansa couldn’t stand to just sit around and wait for Robb though. So a rudimentary plan began to develop in her mind’s eye. The best way to get close enough to Joffrey while he was alone was to marry him. That would require a degree of waiting, since they had to wait until she became a ‘woman’ to do so. Sansa hated waiting, but for this she would have to.

Once married to Joffrey she would still have to wait to kill him. For it would be easier to get to Baelish. After her marriage she could go to him, teary eyed, and pleading for a friend. She’d say she knew he had been a friend of her mother’s and that he was the only person she could trust now. That being married to Joffrey was miserable; that she wished she were married to a real man. Then she’d request to meet alone, somewhere secret. And there in some dark dungeon Sansa would cut his throat with his own knife. She’d leave the murder weapon lodged in his body, and just walk away. Burn any traces of blood. No one would suspect her. Baelish had many enemies. He’d fall for it too. She saw how his eyes had followed her every now and again. It was probably because she looked just like her mother. He would meet with her, and she would kill him.

She would have to do Cersei and Joffrey in the same night, as well as find some way out of the castle. Sansa would not be allowed access to weapons of course, especially in the bedchamber of the King. But a long ornamental hairpin would be overlooked. Sansa’s mother had at one point told her and her siblings that anything could be used as a weapon. So she would have little trouble finding a strong metal or bone ornament and sharpening one end to a point. She’d stab him through the throat so he couldn’t scream. Then she’d leave saying he had fallen asleep. 

Next she’d go to Cersei. Cersei would be easier to get alone. Mostly because Cersei liked to be alone. If Sansa asked her for a private meeting that night to discuss her son, she’d agree. Maybe she’d use the same weapon to kill the Queen as she had on her son. Or perhaps there would be an actual weapon somewhere in the room where they would talk. Again she’d need to go for the throat; so no one would know to come and help her. If she could get Cersei to meet with her in the Queen’s chamber, which would probably be the preferred venue for Cersei as well, she could escape a little easier. For she knew the Queen’s chambers held a secret passageway. One to use in a time of escape when the castle had been breached. Sansa would use that to get out of the castle.

Yes, her plan would require waiting, but if she could kill all three of them and survive then she would be willing to wait as long as it would take. Perhaps her plan was not really feasible or realistic, but she found solace in it all the same. Sansa couldn’t help but feel a little proud of herself. She had designed a plan such as this all on her own. It was the kind of thing Robb would commend her for, she thought. Robb. Jon. Everyone. It was only then that tears came to her eyes. She missed them so much.

There was a sudden knock at her door. Sansa swallowed her tears, but before she could call out an ‘enter,’ her door was opened. It was the Hound.

“The King has summoned you, girl.” Sansa took a deep breath and stood, brushing past him into the hallway. She felt his hand on her shoulder and she paused, looking back at him. He pulled something from his belt and held it out to her. “Thought you might want this back.” 

It was the weapon her mother had given her. The long thin metal knife that resembled a letter opener. The one she had stabbed him with the day they had been attacked. Reaching out her hand to accept it from him. Sansa bit her lip to keep from allowing the tears to reappear in her eyes. She had just been thinking about her family, and here was a memento of her mother. Returned to her by the Hound. Perhaps he was a kinder person than she had first thought. 

“Thank you,” Sansa said softly, but gratefully. She looked up at him and smiled. It was a kind, sweet smile; filled with joy. He seemed embarrassed to Sansa just then. Maybe he thought it was silly of her to feel so strongly for a simple piece of metal. Or maybe it had been because of her smile. In the darkest recesses of her mind she wondered whether she could use him. Whether she could get him to help her in her plans.

***

Joffrey looked murderous when she was brought before him. Not at her though. His expression seemed to soften when his gaze fell on her. It disturbed Sansa. He approached her casually, as though he hadn’t been completely furious at her not too long ago. Joffrey was smiling. It fell somewhat when he got a little closer to her. Reaching out he grasped her chin in his hand and turned her head to look at the bruise on her face. Sansa let him.

“Perhaps I should not have had Ser Meryn hit you.” Joffrey mused. It was far from an apology but Sansa still found it odd. She had thought he would be proud of his handy work. “But you did try to hurt me, so I guess you got what you deserved.” Sansa could only stare. When had she tried to hurt him? Did he mean what she had said? He released her chin and patted her on the cheek. It hurt. “Now you know better, don’t you?” Sansa decided the best thing to do was to stay silent. So she did.

It was apparently what he had wanted since he started talking again. Sansa would have gaped and looked completely bewildered if she could; but she kept her expression the same, although she felt her eye twitch at one point. Joffrey was telling her about his day. He was acting as though it were the most important thing to her. Sansa supposed it was better than him being angry, but him acting as though everything was fine and that she was his dearest and closest friend was just mad. Maybe that’s what he was. Mad.

“Are you listening?” Joffrey snapped. She couldn’t deny her mind had been drifting. “Are you ignoring me?” He asked; it was almost a snarl. The anger was back and he advanced on her. 

“Of course not,” Sansa replied, trying to sound soothing instead of sarcastic. She mostly succeeded since it seemed to calm Joffrey somewhat.

“You better not start being like my mother,” Joffrey mumbled angrily. Now he did have Sansa’s attention. “Leaving me alone. Saying she had ‘more important’ things to do. She’s supposed to care about me, isn't she?” His mood was becoming more and more foul. His expression darkened. “All she talks about is the country’s needs. What about my needs?” He shouted.

To Sansa it made sense. Cersei was effectively sole ruler of Westeros. One might think it would be Joffrey because he was King. But the crown was bankrupt, and all the guards and soldiers were paid with Lannister money. So the Lannister’s were who they would follow. Not some pre-pubescent brat. Cersei probably had many ‘more important’ things to do then listen to her son prattle on about any and every thought that entered his head. Sansa had more important things to do. Although, unlike Cersei, Sansa didn’t have much of a choice. But then Sansa wondered whether this might help her in some fashion. She wondered if she could help facilitate this break between them. That might make things easier. If they were warring with each other. 

“Perhaps your mother does not think you make a good King.” Sansa suggested. She made it sound as though the thought was preposterous. Hoping to fuel Joffrey’s rage towards his mother. Clearly it was true too, because Cersei hadn’t entrusted much of anything, save the title, to Joffrey. It didn’t go the way Sansa had planned. Not at all.

“I am not a failure!” Joffrey screamed at her, and this time Sansa couldn’t hide her shock at his sudden change. She hadn’t said one word about ‘failure;’ she wondered whether he had actually heard what she had said, or what he had decided to hear. He advanced fully on her this time and slapped her. Joffrey wasn’t as strong as Ser Meryn, but he’d hit her in the same place, which was already injured. He pushed her and she stumbled backwards. Sansa was stunned. “Hurt her!” He screamed at Ser Meryn. “Punish her!”

Ser Meryn seemed to be used to Joffrey’s moods by now, for he didn’t appear at all surprised by his King’s request. He would simply obey, that’s what Cersei paid him to do after all. Sansa knew there was nothing she could do. If she ran or fought she’d be dead or locked in the dungeon. So she did nothing as Meryn’s fist slammed into her stomach. Sansa doubled over, but he had grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head back up. When she looked into his dark eyes she realized he wasn’t really seeing her. He’d done this so many times the faces no longer mattered. Sansa couldn’t help letting out a choked grunt of pain as he slugged her again. She wouldn’t cry though, she wouldn’t wail or cry out in pain. Setting her jaw she prepared herself for his next hit. But instead, Meryn dropped her hair and roughly grabbed her arm, shoving her to the floor. She was on her side, and before she could get up his boot connected with her back. With her spine.

Her body arched instinctively, trying to move away from the source of the pain. But then he was in front of her and his next kick was aimed at her rib cage. Sansa sucked in a breath and tried to think of something else. This wasn’t happening, she told herself. This wasn’t happening, because something like this was too insane to actually be happening to her. She thought of the North, of the ice and snow. Of her mother. Her mother could take this. Her mother was strong enough that something like this would not break her. Sansa would not be broken by this either. She refused to be. Then it stopped.

Joffrey had apparently told his knight that it was enough. Composing herself, Sansa sat up. Ignoring as best she could the sudden sharp pain that shot through her body. Joffrey crouched down in front of her, so he was at eye level with her.

“Why would you try to hurt me, Sansa?” Joffrey asked. Everything seemed to freeze for a moment as she comprehended his words. “Why would you do this to yourself?” The way he said it made it sound as though she had been climbing a tree recklessly and fallen and broken a leg. As though this were entirely her fault. Worse, Joffrey made it sound like he cared. As though he were hurt. His hand went to her cheek again and he frowned. “It’s alright though,” she assumed he was talking about the slap he had given her. “We’re not married yet.” 

Then he embraced her. Her arms hung limply at her sides as he held her. It was gentle too. Sansa felt sick.

“Sansa?” Joffrey asked, his voice dangerous. She realized that by not hugging him back he saw it as a rejection. Which it was. Sansa had pride, but her body ached. She couldn’t go through another beating like that. So, slowly lifting her shaking hands she placed her arms loosely around him. “You won’t leave me like mother did, will you, Sansa?” She could hear the smile in his voice. Not a wicked smile either, a smile that came from receiving something lost. It was the same smile she had given the Hound.

He finally released her and stood. Joffrey held out a hand to help her up. As much as Sansa wanted to slap it away or ignore it completely she knew she couldn’t. Not if she wanted to leave. She had been saved from taking his hand by Cersei, who had suddenly entered the room. Joffrey’s hand had dropped, and Sansa had used that moment to get to her feet. Cersei had looked over her, slight shock showing in her features. Perhaps less so of the fact that she was covered in bruises and more so at the fact that Sansa was not crying. In fact her face was quite relaxed and normal looking. As though none of it had happened.

“Was that all you required of me, your grace?” Sansa had asked calmly. Joffrey had smiled at her and given her permission to leave.

There was no question in Sansa’s mind. Joffrey was mad.

***

He had her with him almost every day. Every hour of free time she had to be there, with him. Joffrey would go on and on about his horses of how talented his teacher had told him he was with a sword. Sansa learned several things during this time. Firstly were his triggers. Joffrey hated to feel he was being ignored. That was the hardest for Sansa because she was bored during their time together and feigning interest was difficult. Worse he had quizzed her at one point on what exactly he had been talking about, and she was unable to answer. Joffrey had flown into a rage, while just moments before he had seemed rather jovial. That night she could barely move it hurt so much. Secondly, the idea that he was a failure drove him into an intensely rage filled state. Anything that even hinted at it or might be even suggesting the possibility was taken as such an insult. The smallest things would set him off.

Sansa found herself in tears there at King’s Landing so much more so than she had at Winterfell. It wasn’t the pain of being beaten, the bruises or cuts, not even the humiliation she felt at allowing him to do this to her that caused her to cry. It was because everything that happened, her beatings, her days with Joffrey, reminded her that she was alone. She was stuck. Hundreds of miles away from all those she loved. That was what hurt the most. She couldn’t even write them. And she had no one to talk to. To confide in. She was completely and utterly alone.

The Hound had come to collect her once again. But this time he looked a little worried. Sansa knew that wasn’t good. Usually Joffrey started out in a half-decent mood, but she now had the feeling he had already changed. Sansa wondered whether she should ask the Hound what was going on. Or, rather, why he looked worried. In the end she didn’t have to ask. He stopped her before they entered the throne room.

“Lancel Lannister, the King’s second cousin, has been killed.” Sansa closed her eyes and swallowed. That was it then. Joffrey would certainly be ill tempered, and that would be an understatement.

Sure enough when she had been brought before him yet again, Sansa found herself with a crossbow pointed at her face. Sansa had had weapons pointed at her before. Swords mostly. Mostly by Robb in the yard. So she could stare down the weapon without blinking or breaking into tears. She had been right though. Joffrey was already angry.

“Your brother’s killed my cousin.” Joffrey told her. His eyes dark with rage. Sansa said nothing. She had found it seemed to be the best policy when dealing with the boy-king. An empty apology might have done something, although Sansa doubted it. “I am not losing this war!” He yelled at her spitefully. Sansa was used to this by now. Joffrey seemed to hear things that were never said. “I will not be humiliated!” He hissed. “Meryn!” He called.

The knight came forward, his hand curling, ready to do his duty for the King. Sansa still had bruises on her stomach, so when his fist hit her, it hurt ten times worse than normal. She wondered if she were hit enough whether her skin would just lose its ability to feel. 

“Wait.” Joffrey stopped him. His voice was flat. Cold. “You humiliated me.” Sansa wanted to ask when exactly that had happened but she kept her mouth shut. “I want her humiliated.” Joffrey told Ser Meryn. Sansa waited. “Strip her.” 

Before Sansa could even think, Ser Meryn had grasped her dress and ripped it. Her hands flew to her chest as the fabric ripped the sound echoing through the hall. Sansa fell to her knees and hunched over trying to keep the strips of cloth tightly against her bare chest. Her face burned and she felt tears prickle her eyes. This was far worse than any beating. It wasn’t just Joffrey and his knights in the room. There were other nobles for the different Houses. She shouldn’t care, she thought, but it was humiliating. Just as Joffrey had wanted it to be.

“What in the gods’ names is going on?” Sansa knew that voice. She wanted to lift her head to look, but she kept it tucked down, forming a barrier around her chest. “Is this how you treat your future Queen?” She had been right. It was Tyrion Lannister, the dwarf. She could see it was him when he walked up to stand in front of her.

“She’s getting what she deserves,” Joffrey growled. “After what she did to me--”

“You mean after what her brother did?” Tyrion cut in. “You cannot punish her for acts she had nothing to do with.” He snapped. “Someone cover this poor girl.” The Hound moved immediately, pulling his white cloak off and wrapping it around Sansa. She grasped the front of it tightly keeping it together around her. Sansa heard Joffrey say something else, but he didn’t get far. “Shut up, boy!” There was silence and then a hand was offered to her. She finally looked up, praying her tears were no longer visible. Tyrion gave a soft sad smile. She thought he must pity her. Seeing her like this. So weak. New tears started to form at the thought. 

“My lady,” Tyrion offered again. Sansa took his hand. He helped her get to her feet and escorted her out of the throne room. They were halfway down the hallway when he next spoke. “Do you wish to try to end your engagement?”

“No!” Sansa stopped and looked down at him. “I want to marry him.” She told him determinedly. Tyrion gave her the oddest look and she knew he was probably trying to figure out why on earth she would actually want to marry him. Unless being Queen meant that much to her. But Sansa didn’t care about that. What she cared about was her plan. And she’d come too far to just let it fall apart.

Tyrion walked her all the way back to her chamber. She thanked him, and she entered her room, closing the door behind her. Her back to the door, she slid down to the floor. She held back the tears for a full ten minutes. For she had to wait until he was gone. Then she let them fall. Her sobs racked her body and she covered her mouth to try to keep herself silent. What Sansa didn’t know was that Tyrion had waited just on the other side of the door. That he had heard her begin to cry. His frown was deep and his eyes sympathetic. He placed his hand against the wooden door and wished he could think of a way to comfort her, or better yet keep her from ever having to feel like that again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	13. Arya

Arya was excited. She had heard how Robb’s forces were moving south, and how they were calling him the Lion Slayer. The prospect of meeting up with him and marching with him down to King’s Landing was thrilling. Yoren had dismissed the idea completely. Telling her that under no circumstance was he leading her or any of the recruits onto a battlefield. He did not want to get caught up in this war. Besides, he told her, the battlefield was no place for her. So he insisted on taking her to Winterfell. Arya was not pleased.

They were certainly close enough. Arya would only have to head west and only a small degree north to meet up with Robb’s army. Yoren and his band were traveling much quicker due to the fact that they had only a handful of people and they did not have constant battles they were fighting. They had no delays at all actually. It was rather smooth going. It bored Arya to death. Although she had noticed the rather odd phenomena of Nymeria’s eyes changing color. One minute they’d be yellow, the next blue. She wondered whether that was a dire wolf trait.

She’d met the recruits, but she didn’t really have any interest in them. There was one though that tried to talk to her all the time. His name was Gendry. He was nice enough she supposed. He’d tried to be friendly by asking her where she was recruited from and whether she chose to go to the wall. When she had been quite terse with him, basically just grunting in a noncommittal response, then he had asked whether she had been a prisoner, and whether that was why she didn’t want to talk about it. Arya had gotten rather angry at that telling him she had never committed a crime in her life. He had laughed and said: “Finally, you actually spoke to me.” Arya hadn’t known what to make of that. She hadn’t known what to feel besides a little embarrassed for yelling and for being tricked into talking to him. He had a nice smile though.

Her reaction had only encouraged him. Arya had to admit he had determination. Reluctantly she had begun a friendship with him. Not that Arya really knew what that meant with an outsider. All her friends were her siblings. Which meant they were different. So Arya wasn’t sure exactly what she was supposed to do. Yoren seemed to find it all very funny. He’d told her that Uncle Benjen had talked about her quite a bit up at the wall, so he felt that he knew her somewhat. In any case, Gendry seemed to want to get to know her.

“Why are you always trying to talk with me?” Arya had snapped one morning. She hadn’t slept well the night before and the hollowness she felt from being without her family was particularly bad. She had also wanted to know. He had been quiet at first; Arya thought he must be really considering his answer.

“You always look like you’re thinking about something important.” Gendry finally said. He nodded to himself, apparently liking the way it had come out. “I’ve seen you practicing too, you’re really good.” He gave her a smile. “You never look homesick, and even the toughest of these guys,” he jerked his thumb in the direction of the other recruits. “Well, I can sometimes hear them crying at night.” Arya would not cry if she thought someone could hear. That would be absolutely mortifying. Having Yoren see her had taken a toll on her pride. “And,” he continued. “You seem like you know what you're doing, like you have everything all figured out.” He gave a short laugh. “Only my master at the blacksmiths ever seemed that way, and he was forty.” 

Arya was surprised he had so much to say about her, it wasn’t as though she offered up information all the time. She thought she’d been rather closed off with him. But, she’d never really thought of herself like that. Arya wondered if that was how others saw her. It was kind of nice though, to be praised like that. She would never admit it but she felt a little shy just then.

“You think I’m like a forty year old man?” Arya asked flatly, feigning irritation. Gendry seemed flustered as he tried to explain what he meant in how he seemed to relate to the world; he hadn’t meant she reminded him of an old man. Then Arya laughed. He looked so funny, his face had gone red.

After that Arya had decided she liked Gendry. He was not like her siblings, but he was fun. So she took it upon herself to teach him how to use a sword. He’d been confused at first; Arya didn’t know why. Swordplay was what she knew. It was what she did with her siblings. Gendry had asked her one day, why they couldn’t just play cards. She’d blinked at him, not fully comprehending what he was saying. Arya knew how to play cards; she’d played a couple games before. But practicing was what had been for bonding, what had meant something, that and talking at meals or going for walks or runs. So Arya didn’t really understand how playing cards could possibly facilitate a friendship.

* * *

They were so close to Robb now. So close. Arya lay there trying to sleep, but she kept thinking about it. With a growl of annoyance, Arya sat up and ran a hand through her hair. She looked west, the direction Robb was in. Hesitating, Arya fought over what she should do. Part of her knew it would probably be safer to stay, and that Yoren was right; even if she was heading towards Robb she could just as easily run right into the Lannister troops. Although currently she was masquerading as a boy so they wouldn’t know who she was. Then again they might just kill her if they thought she had no value. 

A much larger part of her wanted to go. To see Robb and her mother. Her reasoning that even if she went back to Winterfell she would just end up going back south to join up with Robb, which meant she’d be doing a lot of backtracking. Which was pointless. So going now would actually save her quite a bit of time. At least that was what she told herself. Which is why she decided she would just have to go. Yoren would realize she was gone in the morning, but there would be nothing he could do at that point.

Being as quiet as she could, grabbed her sword, and patted Nymeria to make sure she was awake and would follow. Arya looked around the camp for a minute. She felt a little bad about doing this to Yoren, and part of her felt even worse for not being able to say goodbye to Gendry. Shaking off those feelings was difficult, especially since she wondered whether she would ever actually see either of them again. It wasn’t as though she went up to the wall all that frequently.

She stole into the forest heading and swiftly and silently as she could. Heading towards Robb. Arya saw Nymeria walking briskly along next to her and she felt a little better. Even if she did run into some unsavory characters, Nymeria would be there to help her. It was pitch black in the forest, and she had not brought a torch for obvious reasons, still the lack of light made slow going. Then suddenly she realized Nymeria wasn’t beside her anymore. Fear gripped her momentarily and she turned around to look for her companion. She gave a sigh of relief when she saw Nymeria just a few yards back behind her.

Her wolf was just standing there, looking back towards the direction they had come; back towards the camp. Arya walked back towards Nymeria and scratched her behind the ears. She figured Nymeria must feel the same way about leaving Yoren and Gendry like this. But then she realized maybe she wasn’t. Nymeria seemed a little on edge, her ears were back and there was a low growl in her throat.

“What is it?” Arya asked. Nymeria must have heard something was all Arya could think. She certainly had superior hearing compared to her. Arya looked in the direction her wolf was and tried to listen, she also squinted her eyes in the hopes of seeing something. But there was nothing. “Come on.” Arya told her familiar, and tried to pull her along. But Nymeria stayed firmly where she was. Arya sighed; unsure as what to do. Nymeria turned towards her and grabbed her sleeve with her teeth and pulled her gently back towards camp.

Arya pressed her lips together tightly. Nymeria clearly thought something was wrong. But Arya had just gotten free and was on her way to her family. She couldn’t leave Nymeria though, so reluctantly she started walking back towards the camp. Arya hoped there was something horribly wrong that would merit her going back. It turned out there was.

Shouts could be heard as she got closer, and she could see the area was now better lit. More fires had been made or more likely there were more torches. Sure enough as Arya snuck forward she saw that there was a group of men that had come across the camp. Looking at the banner they carried she knew they were Lannister men. She saw Yoren standing in front of the boys protectively. Arya wasn’t sure what the soldiers wanted with them, they were just lowly recruits after all. It didn’t matter though, whether Arya understood why they were there because they were. And their swords were drawn. Ever so slowly Arya unsheathed Needle; it made no sound as the steel of the blade glided against its leather covering. Nymeria seemed to crouch, in preparation for attack, teeth bared and muscles taut with strength.

Circling around, Arya positioned herself so she was behind the men. She counted six, a usual number for an independent squad. They were probably scouters, Arya decided. Yoren had reached for his own blade, and some of the boys behind him had small knives or short swords. Arya placed her gaze straight at Yoren’s face, willing him to look at her. He did. There was surprise, then relief, then something between anger and fear. She saw him glance at her sword, and then he gave a small shake of the head. Arya almost flinched at his reaction; she was furious and even astounded that he didn’t want her help. That in all likelihood he wanted her to run.

But this time Sansa was not there. This was Yoren, who, while Arya liked and felt mild respect for him, was not her family. And it certainly wasn’t her duty to follow his orders. Not for family, not for duty, what was left? Honor. Arya almost wanted to cringe. She’d never really acted out of honor before; she’d never had the chance. Now she found herself with it being her only guiding force. But then Arya accepted it. Because her sense of honor would not let her run. Honor for her, right then, meant staying and fighting. Perhaps honor was not so bad after all, if used correctly and appropriately.

It was clear to the Lannister’s men by now that Yoren was not going to stand down. They lunged forward to attack, and at that same moment so did Arya and Nymeria. Surprise was a wondrous weapon, one Arya would use any chance she got, and here she had it. Dashing forward she sprang into the air, Needle faced forward; she slammed her body against the back of one of the men. Having jumped she had been able to aim her sword just right and send it straight through the back of his neck. She coasted on his body as he fell forward, and just as his body hit the ground she had gotten to her feet and yanked Needle out of his neck. One down. Yoren was busy fighting two of the men; Nymeria had tackled another and had him pinned. The soldier beneath her was trying to hold her off, his hands pushing at her neck to keep her from reaching her goal. His throat. Nymeria was stronger though. The other two had advanced on the boys. 

The attack had been so sudden that only two of them realized that Arya and Nymeria had attacked them from their backs. They ran at her and Arya quickly thought of how she could possibly engage two full grown men on her own. She didn’t have to; Nymeria was happy to bloody her already dripping jaws. Arya jumped back as the man swung his sword. She realized he was probably stronger than her, he was much taller too. Reaching somewhere that wasn’t well armored would be more difficult. She decided the best thing to do was treat it like a fight with Robb. Arya had never been able to win against him, but she’d gotten close a few times. He swung again and she dodged out of the way, refusing to engage him.

“Stay still, you little maggot!” The man growled. Arya snarled at him; she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of answering him but she was irked by the man. Not that name calling was hurtful to her, but it was rather rude. And certainly something she had never experienced while fighting before.

Finally she got him right where she wanted him. At his next attack, she ducked. She couldn’t help the wicked grin that spread across her face when she saw how he had realized what had happened. He had swung his sword fight into a large tree. Shock. That was what she had hoped to see on Robb’s face when she had first tried it, but Robb was smart enough to figure out what she had been doing. Arya wasted no time in her counter attack, for while she figured he was not as strong as Robb, and as such shouldn’t be able to pull his weapon free too easily, she wasn’t willing to take the chance.

Before he had a chance to move she shifted the grip on her sword and aimed jammed it upwards, right into the fleshy underside of his jaw. She pushed it in as far as it would go. Blood sputtered from his lips, trickling down his chin, dripping onto needle and onto her face. His eyes grew wide and then dead; she thought she could see his soul being extinguished for the light in his eyes was snuffed out. Arya had to grip her sword tightly to pull it out of him as his body fell backwards. She held Needle out in front of her, but it was unrecognizable. For once it was silver now it was coated in crimson. 

Now that it was basically over, the burst of strength she had felt when it began faded. Her hands shook slightly and Needle fell from her grip. She tasted bile in her throat and turning quickly she placed her hand against the tree to steady herself as she heaved. When she finished she found Nymeria beside her. Moving closer the wolf started licking the blood off her hands. Looking down at her, Arya saw her muzzle was stained red and her fur was splotched with it as well. Yellow eyes bore into hers.

She heard a last cry and she snapped back to where she was. Arya left the tree quickly, walking past the body as though it meant nothing. Nothing happened. Nothing that meant anything had happened. That’s what she told herself. Because she just couldn’t think about it. Arya didn’t want anyone to know she had gotten sick like that, or that she felt as shaken about what had happened as she did. Yoren was breathing heavily, standing over the lifeless body of one of the soldiers. He called out to check whether the recruits were all right. They were. Then his eyes landed on Arya.

“What is wrong with you!” He yelled; Arya couldn’t fathom why he would be so angry at her. “I told you ‘no,’ and I know you understood.” Now Arya was feeling indignant.

“And what were you going to do?” Arya yelled back. “Take on six men by yourself?” Yoren opened his mouth to snap something back, and then closed it. He was still furious at her. But Arya knew and he knew that if she hadn’t been there he would have been outnumbered and probably dead. The boys would not have been able to take on those men by themselves. That Arya and Nymeria had taken two each from the fray was the difference between him living and dying.

“You could have been killed,” he hissed. Although his face was softening as he spoke, Arya’s face tensed more and she curled her fists tightly to keep them from shaking in anger. 

“What do you care?” She asked darkly. Yoren looked like she’d hit him. Arya felt a small pang of regret. But she wasn’t going to back down. He seemed to be willing to however since he just shook his head. They had needed to move the camp after that. Traveling in the dark was difficult and potentially perilous, but they couldn’t stay with all those bodies. Gendry had asked her whether she was okay and she stiffly told him that of course she was. Because she was. At least she wanted to be. 

When they had finally set up camp in a new area there were still several hours until dawn. But Arya couldn’t sleep. She had wanted to but when she closed her eyes she saw the man she had killed, saw the light leaving him again. So she couldn’t sleep. It was funny to her that it was her second, rather than first kill, that was sticking with her so vividly. But then it had seemed a little more personal somehow. She looked over at Nymeria and wondered how she was going to get those blood stains off her fur, and she wanted to quickly. Because it reminded her of it. Not that she regretted it, because she knew for certain she didn’t. But something had felt sickeningly wrong about stealing away a man’s life like that. She pulled her knees up against her chest and sighed. Robb wouldn’t feel like this, she was sure. A part of her was proud of what she had done. But it ended up overshadowed by everything else.

“Can’t sleep?” It was Yoren. She mentally kicked herself for not hearing him approach her. Arya didn’t answer, since she really didn’t need to. Yoren dropped to the ground next to her. There was a nice calm silence for some time before he spoke. “Were you trying to go to your brother?” Arya knew she shouldn’t be surprised that he had figured it out, but in honesty after everything Arya had forgotten. She nodded though. “If you want to go, I won’t stop you.” Yoren told her, Arya looked up at that. He was facing forward so all she saw was his profile, but his jaw was set and he had a slight frown. So he wanted to stop her but know he couldn’t, or maybe he thought that by telling her that she would be more likely to stay.

“Well,” Arya started a grin forming on her face. “I can’t very well leave you alone after that now can I?” She teased; he smirked a little in response. Part of her thought that he probably would get killed if he didn’t have her there; another part knew he was a grown man and knew how to handle himself and the cruel, cruel world they lived in.

“I do care,” he said suddenly, and Arya looked up at him. “And not just because I know your uncle Benjen.” He finally turned to look down at her. His face was quite serious. “You’re young Arya, and while you seem fully prepared for this world, you shouldn’t have to be.” Arya blinked. “Not yet.”

Her father had once said something similar to her. It was one of the reasons he had given her for taking her to King’s Landing. That she needed to enjoy life, and not worry about the darkness that was there. Childhood was for the light and he hated seeing her running so passionately towards the dark. Everything seemed to come crashing in then. All the feelings she’d kept bottled up, seeing her father die, being so far away from her family, the shame of leaving her sister trapped in that awful place, the sharp aching pain and sickness from having bloodied hands. Everything hit her right then after he had said those words. She tried to keep them in, she bit her lip and held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut. Arya Stark didn’t cry. Not in front of people. 

She felt his hand reach out and touch her head, and then he pulled her against him. His arm around her and her face half buried in his shirt. Arya felt the tears start to stream down her face and couldn’t contain a sob, so she crushed herself against his chest, hiding her face and muffling her cries in his shirt. Yoren just sat there, quietly letting all of her feelings pour out of her. For once in her life Arya didn’t feel quite so ashamed of crying. Yoren made it feel like it was normal, like it was okay for her to feel like this. Maybe it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!


	14. Bran

Blood. Bran was used to seeing it by now. And not just when he was with his brother Robb in Grey Wind’s skin. Bran had learned to take control of Grey Wind perfectly, yet he kept the wolfish instincts that urged him to protect his brother. So Bran had killed. Not with his own hands, but Bran didn’t really see a difference. Now, however, he saw blood in his dreams as well. Although they were not really dreams. Bran knew that. At first he had only dreamed of the army from the north, the army of the dead and of the snow on fire, of those dead warriors burning to ash as dark shadows circled overhead. Then he had dreamed of battles. Bran had originally thought he must be seeing from Grey Winds eyes, but he realized that it was day in his visions and night when he slept. The way he saw it though told him he was not seeing things as a wolf. No, he watched it unfold the same way he had the ice and fire of his first dream.

Bran watched the battle rage. One side held the Stark banner the other, Bran couldn’t quite see. He recognized no one on the field, but as he walked through the raging battle something caught Bran’s eye. It was Ghost, Jon’s dire wolf. That had never happened before. He had always just seen the battle of these faceless men, never had anything he knew been present. Bran watched the white beast weave through the fighting men, heading somewhere. He was surprised that Ghost’s fur was still so pristinely white when all around them was blood. For some reason he knew he had to follow the wolf. It was quick and it was hard to keep up, but he came to a halt when he saw a face he knew very well. He recognized it instantly. It was Jon. 

He watched his brother fight some man he did not know. Their swords clashed and Jon’s eyes were narrowed dangerously. Just as Ghost, Jon didn’t seem to be splattered with blood like the rest of the men around him. Bran had seen his brother practice, had practiced with him before, but never had he seen Jon so stone faced and serious. He had never realized just how much wolf his brother had in him. Bran had always thought Robb had gotten all of that. Jon pushed the man back and they circled each other once again. Then Bran saw someone else he knew. Theon.

Theon walked toward Jon, his sword raised. Bran wanted to believe he was going to help him, they had grown up together after all and Jon had always been kind to him. But Bran somehow knew that was not what Theon would do. Panic gripped him; for while he knew what he was seeing wasn’t real it still felt real. Jon was too busy fighting the other man to notice Theon coming up behind him. Bran called out to his brother, but no sound came from his mouth. Reaching out his arms he tried to grab at Theon. But his hands moved through him as though he were a ghost.

Bran watched in horror as Theon sheathed his sword in Jon’s back. His brother gasped, eyes wide, his head turning just enough to see his killer. Then Jon was covered in blood. Jon fell to his knees and everything seemed to freeze. The battlefield seemed suddenly very empty. Except for Jon and Ghost who was howling with anguish and fury. Just over the ridge Bran saw a banner, a flag, whipping in the wind, stained with blood. It had something embroidered on it in gold: a kraken. The symbol for the House of Greyjoy. There was a second flag as well, and the picture on that one sent a chill through Bran; it was a picture of a flayed man. The House of Bolton. And then he recognized the castle in the distance, a castle no one would ever wish even onto their enemies to see the inside of.

His eyes opened to the dark early morning light. Rubbing his eyes, Bran sat up, glad to find himself in his room and not on that awful battlefield. He could feel his heart was beating fast and he tried to calm himself. But he could still feel the panic. Bran still hadn’t told Jon about his dreams, or perhaps they were visions. They seemed so unlikely that Bran couldn’t fathom why his gut seemed to be telling him they were truths and not just figments his imagination had conjured. Bran realized he needed to rethink things. He decided he needed to tell Jon, because if what he was seeing was real then it was possible he could save his brother’s life. Assuming of course, that what he saw really was the future. Bran couldn’t shake the feeling that it was.

Grasping the wooden crutches next to his bed, Bran pulled them to him and shakily got to his feet. It had taken him some time to figure out how to use them. Balance had been an issue that wouldn’t seem to go away, but Bran did not want to be bedridden, or solely reliant on someone else to help him move. Rickon had told him he should just ride Summer around, as Rickon did with Shaggydog. Summer was certainly growing at a fast rate, but Bran thought it would be a while before he could actually use his dire wolf for transport. Opening the door to his room was a little challenging, and also something Summer couldn’t help him with. Bran supposed he could have just possessed Ghost and bugged Jon until he came to see him, but what he had to say felt too urgent to wait.

At last he reached Jon’s room. Leaning against the doorway, Bran used one of his crutches to bang on the door. It was a lot louder than Bran had expected or wanted it to be. But it certainly woke Jon up. Bran recognized that it was an ungodly hour, the sun barely risen against the horizon, but the uneasiness he felt made it impossible to go back to sleep or to think of anything else other than that sword being plunged into Jon’s back. He shivered at the thought. Jon’s door opened after the second knock. His elder brother had clearly been in a deep sleep, his dark hair disheveled and his eyes half open. Seeing Bran seemed to be like a bucket of ice water being poured on him though.

“Bran, what’s wrong?” He sounded worried. Part of Bran now felt a little silly for waking his brother up. Jon probably thought he had some news of Robb or their mother, or of Arya. But he didn’t. Jon apparently read Bran’s hesitation and the worry dissipated, his face turning soft. “Come in.” He widened the door so that Bran could get past. Early on Jon had tried to help Bran with his walking, but Bran had wanted to do it himself. He had to do it himself. So now Jon, even though Bran could see how he itched to do so, would not try to constantly help him.

Bran sat on the edge of Jon’s bed, his older brother sitting down next to him. Ghost was lying on the bed, and Bran reached out and ruffled the wolf’s snow white fur. Jon seemed to be waiting for him to speak. Bran tried to think about how he should phrase what he wanted to say. Or rather how he was going to tell his brother that he thought he could see the future, or something like it. He thought maybe he shouldn’t tell him everything, that maybe he should leave out the dream about the ice and fire. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and when he looked up at Jon he was smiling kindly. And Bran knew he had to tell him everything.

“There’s something I didn’t tell you,” Bran started, “About after my fall. There was something else I kept seeing.” Jon’s expression hadn’t changed. That gave Bran some encouragement and he took a breath. “I kept seeing, and keep seeing, an army from the north and beasts of fire in the sky.” He chanced a glance back at Jon, he looked thoughtful. “But then I started having another dream, of a battle. It wasn’t Robb’s battle though.” His words seemed to come more quickly now. “At first I didn’t know whose battle it was, but tonight...” He stopped; the image of what he had seen flickering through his mind. “I saw you die Jon.” Bran had thought he would say something after that, but he didn’t. So he continued. “I saw you in a battle with the Greyjoys, and I saw Theon kill you.” Bran’s words were no more than a whisper.

“Are you saying the Greyjoys are going to rebel again?” Jon asked calmly. Bran looked up at his brother, a little shocked. Here he had just told Jon he was going to die, and yet he seemed to completely overlook it. But then again, Jon was always rather practical.

“I don’t know,” Bran told him honestly; for he did not know whether it was really a rebellion or whether the Greyjoys had perhaps joined with the Lannisters. “But I know what I am seeing is real.” Bran told him with conviction. He knew what his brother’s next question would be so he answered before he could ask it. “It happens at the Dreadfort.” Jon’s eyes widened at that.

The House of Bolton was the ruler of that keep, and a dark and evil keep it was. For historically, and even on their banner, they skinned men alive for information, or just for torture. They had not risen up against the Starks as the Greyjoys had during their father’s rule, which they might have done. But then they probably were wise enough to know they could not win against Ned Stark, for while he was not a vicious general, he knew what he was doing and he had the loyalty of many men.

Bran watched as Jon mulled the information over. It made more sense to Bran now that he was thinking about it. The Greyjoys and the Boltons knew Robb was away at war with the majority of their men, and while the two Houses did not really like each other they both hated the Starks more. They seemed to have a rather great advantage as well. Jon was frowning now, and Bran wished he knew what he was thinking. He wanted to know whether his brother believed him.

“It wouldn’t hurt to send some envoys east,*” Jon finally said. So he wanted to confirm Bran’s visions. Jon must have seen the look on Bran’s face. “If I just sent an army, or marched over there, it might actually provoke an attack.” He explained. Bran nodded in understanding, but the uneasiness in his stomach wouldn’t seem to go away.

* * *

Things ended up going the way Bran had originally wanted, that is to say things were taken much more seriously, when Theon suddenly disappeared. He had never integrated into the Stark family. Bran would say that it was because they were too different; Theon just didn’t hold the same values as the rest of them. In any case he had disappeared. Or run off rather. Were it not for Bran’s dream they would have all assumed he had gone off to join Robb as Theon had made it very clear that he had wanted to go with him. He had wanted to be on the battlefield. In all honesty Bran didn’t think he would actually like it as much as he thought he would. Theon, for all he tried, was not a fighter or a thinker. 

Jon had sent out a rider to track him, and Bran was surprised that Theon had enough sense to head south, acting as if he were in fact going to join with Robb, before backtracking back, heading north east. They would have missed it if Jon had not insisted the trackers follow for much longer than would be considered enough. He had done so because of Bran’s dream.

All this happened before Jon had been able to send out the envoys, which meant they wouldn’t be sent. No, instead troops would need to be sent, and quickly, for if they could squash the rebellion before it had time to truly begin, less would have to die. Jon had been talking to Bran and Luwin about what would need to be done. They were stretched thin due to the war in the south. So Jon had to decide between sending the majority of forces they had against the Greyjoys and Baltons, leaving only himself to protect Winterfell, or leaving Bran alone to watch over the keep while he took a smaller force, hoping that his skills in strategy and warfare would be enough. Bran was sure that Jon could win any war even if outnumbered, but his brother was wary about leaving Bran and Rickon. Luwin would be there, true, but he was old. But then things suddenly started looking up. Arya arrived.

She was with a recruiter for the Night’s Watch, Yoren, and a number of young recruits. Arya was thrilled to be back, although Bran knew she was trying to hide it. Ever the proud one, Arya didn’t like showing any strong emotions. Bran thought she failed more often than not, but then others never seemed to notice, so maybe it was just him.

“Arya!” Jon had pulled her into a huge hug, lifting her off the ground as he did so. Bran was still in his room, but he watched everything as Ghost. He was happy to see his sister, but he took a moment to look at her companions. The recruits seemed shocked at finding out who she was, and Bran realized, looking at his sister, that they had probably thought she was a boy.

“I’m fine, Jon, put me down!” Arya tried to sound angry but she wasn’t. Not at all. Jon offered Winterfell as a resting place for Yoren and his recruits in thanks for bringing him his sister back safely. The man accepted, Bran could see how tired and dirty they all looked, and his eyes did not overlook the dried blood that clung to his older sister’s clothes. 

Arya was happy to hear that Bran had awakened, although he could see the surprise and even sadness in his sister’s eyes when she saw him; bedridden. She’d hugged him all the same and told him about how she had helped protect her group from Lannister men. Bran wished he had been in Nymeria then. It was just him and her now, Jon having gone to talk with Yoren.

“Is it temporary...or....?” Arya asked. It had been a long time since they’d last seen each other, and he knew she must know that after such a long time there was no chance he would regain his ability to walk. He still couldn’t feel anything beyond his waist. But her words were her way of saying she was sorry.

“It’s okay,” he told her, then grinned. “It’s not like I’m helpless.” She gave him a confused look. He hadn’t yet gotten around to telling her about his warg connection. He wasn’t just going to tell her though. There’d be no fun in that.

His eyes greyed out and then he was Nymeria. Standing just behind his sister he jumped on her, knocking her over, his front paws pinning her arms at her shoulders. Arya yelped in surprise at suddenly finding herself on the floor and staring up into blue eyes. Just because he knew it would bother her he used Nymeria’s tongue to slobber all over her face. Then he was back in his bed, watching as Nymeria moved off Arya, and she sat up utterly confused.

“What the-?” Then she saw Bran’s smile and comprehension dawned. Arya’s eyes widened. “That was you? That...The blue eyes!” Bran laughed, which snapped Arya from her state of wonder. She narrowed her eyes and frowned. Arya did not like being laughed at. He could tell she was jealous, but she also seemed really happy for him. “I guess all you needed was a wolf’s body to move right huh?” She teased. Then she thought. “Bran, you’d be deadly in a fight as a wolf!” Oh, he knew. He told her how he’d been on the battlefield with Robb and again he saw how envious she was.

* * *

Bran had been up all day on his crutches, so as night fell he and he found himself wanting to get a hold of his newly arrived sister he opted to possess Nymeria rather than try to haul himself up and down the stairs to the yard. But when he found himself near his sister as her wolf, he saw she was with someone. It was one of the boy recruits.

“It’s not a big deal, Gendry.” Arya was saying. The dark haired boy shook his head though and Bran could see the boy felt foolish in some capacity.

“You’re a lady,” He told her, which only made Arya cross her arms and frown. “I shouldn’t have been so familiar or been so crude--”

“Oh please, you said, what, five curse words the entire journey?” Arya scoffed. “I said at least twenty.” Bran could definitely picture that. Then Arya seemed to be quite serious and her voice was low as she spoke. “You’re my first friend, Gendry.” She admitted. “Don’t not be my friend just because I’m a girl, just because of my blood.” Bran had never seen his sister like that before.He thought then that she was not as different from Sansa as she thought she was. 

Gendry gave a small nod, but then walked past her and back inside where the other recruits were. Arya just stood there like she was frozen, but Bran saw her firsts tighten. Then there was a noise behind them and Bran turned to see Yoren. Arya still hadn’t moved. Yoren walked up beside her and rested a hand kindly on her head.

“Give him a bit of time,” Yoren said to her. He sounded optimistic. “It’s not every day a boy finds out the person he looks up to most is a noble born lady.” Yoren smiled when Arya sent him an annoyed look.

“You’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?” She asked him then. Yoren smiled softly and nodded. Arya tried to smile back, but Bran could see that she was sad. “I’ll miss you.” She said at last, another admission.

“Me too, little wolf.” Bran had to leave then. Because he had never seen that side of his sister, and it was such a personal moment he felt like he was intruding. It was then he realized there was so much about his sister he knew nothing about. True she was the one that had hid it, but he had never pushed for it as Yoren had seemed to. Bran bit his lip and couldn’t help but feel a little empty inside, for he had no relationship like that.

* * *

Despite what Bran had witnessed that night Arya showed no signs of sadness when the Night’s Watchman left the next morning. He did see Gendry shake her hand though and give her a lopsided smile. Yoren had been right then. Jon had gotten right down to business after that.

“You have perfect timing, Arya.” He hadn’t yet explained to her about the Greyjoy and Bolton situation. Jon hadn’t wanted to discuss it in front of outsiders. So he told her about what was going on. At first Arya had seemed excited, clearly she thought she would be going with him.

“What!” Arya exclaimed angrily. “You want me to stay here?”

“I need someone to take care of Winterfell, Bran, and Rickon.” Jon reasoned, although Arya was far from convinced.

“Bran’s old enough to take care of himself and Winterfell.” Arya pointed out. “Plus he can control his wolf so he’s not defenseless!”

“He can’t talk as a wolf, Arya, and he has no opposable thumbs as one either.” Jon replied flatly. Arya just grumbled. While Jon had a valid point, Bran liked to think he could in fact take care of himself. Arya’s protests got her nowhere in the end. Jon decided to split their remaining troops between him, who would be taking them to battle, and Winterfell; so that they had, at least, some protection. Bran was concerned about the whole business, praying what he had done would change what he had seen instead of causing it to pass.

So Jon left. Arya stayed. All Bran could do now was wait. Wait for his brothers. He didn’t like it almost as much as Arya didn’t. In the meantime, Bran continued to be haunted by the dreams of battle. Although, he found the dreams about the white walkers became more frequent. The dream started to become more specific. He started seeing the Wall. And he started to see a rider on one of the beasts. That was one thing that didn’t change. He didn’t know what kind of creatures they were. He could see their shadows, but their forms eluded him. Bran had decided to share his dreams with Arya, seeing as she found running Winterfell rather dull. But she was good at it. Bran had felt a little bit of regret when he had told her about seeing the Wall, because he knew that she would worry about Uncle Benjen, and about Yoren.

Then a raven came. Uncle Benjen had disappeared beyond the Wall. Arya wanted to go. She told Bran it was for Family. That, while her duty was to run Winterfell, a member of their family was in danger, and that family came first. So she had to go. Bran knew she was mostly rationalizing doing what she wanted. But in some ways she was right. No matter what Jon had said Bran knew he could handle Winterfell. He was young, but he knew what he was doing. Besides, he could see how much Arya wanted to go. She had such a strong relationship with their uncle, and now with Yoren. 

Bran watched her go, promising to watch over her as Nymeria, and to try to relay her information about everyone else. He couldn’t talk as a wolf, true, but he could try to find some other way to let her know. Bran wished her all the luck. The next night Bran found he must be able to affect the future, for now in his dream of the ice and fire he saw Arya. He prayed, just as he had with Jon, that he had not sent her to her death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading!
> 
> Also, as much as I know no one will like....  
> Note: * I have transplanted the Iron Islands to the bay-like area between the cities of Karhold and Widow’s Watch, because that position makes more sense to me and it works better for the way the story is going to go.


	15. Arwyn

Arwyn had begged Robb not to send her back to Winterfell. He had agreed, although he told her she would not like what she saw. She would be in the middle of a war, and while he could protect her from physical harm, he could not protect her from seeing the blood and carnage. Arwyn decided she was alright with that. She had just married him after all, and she wanted to be with him. Robb, despite being called the Lion Slayer was, just as he promised, kind and good to her. Sometimes she thought it seemed as though he were always trying to think about how to best answer her or treat her when they interacted. The fact that he worried or at least cared about it was enough for her.

Her father had not been kind to her. Her siblings were marginally better, but in that house learning to either be cruel or submissive were the only options. Arwyn had chosen the latter because she was not pretty enough for them not to hit her were she to talk back nor was she physically strong like her brothers. So she hadn’t had all that many options available to her. But Arwyn was a sweet girl inside, sweet and soft. So Robb had been right that she would not like what she saw. She did get used to the sight of the Lannister heads brought back, the most recent being of Willem and Kevan Lannister.

The first thing she learned was that Robb couldn’t handle crying. When he had first come back from battle he had been covered in blood. Arwyn had been so distraught upon seeing him, for she had thought he must have been seriously injured. He’d bristled when he saw her tears. They were for him and she was pretty sure he knew they were a sign she cared for him, but still he looked away, although he did place a hand kindly on her head. Then he’d said something she’d never forget; something that someday would no longer be true.

“Don’t worry so much, it’s not mine.” He said. “It’s never mine.” Arwyn had felt another pang of sadness, but this time it was because of how he sounded. Hollow. She had never been in a situation like this. Everything with Robb was a first. But she had stopped crying and she pulled him to her and embraced him. It seemed to be the right thing at the time. And while he was limp for a long time she eventually felt his blood stained hands lightly touch her back.

Robb had also wanted her to learn how to defend herself. Arwyn had been rather surprised, as it was wholly unorthodox. But it was his way of showing he cared, and in all honesty Arwyn wanted to be stronger. She just never knew it would be physically as well. At first he had gone easy on her, she could tell, and she knew why. But she had finally decided to tell him not to. She told him flat out that she would never get stronger fast enough if he was so gentle with her. That was the first time he’d given her a real smile; a happy smile. It sent a thrill through her.

Her husband was busy with his war though, so he was gone for long periods of time and exhausted when he returned. So Arwyn spent a lot of her time with Lady Catelyn Stark. Her mother in law was not a skilled fighter as Robb was, for she had never had formal training. But Catelyn did tell her more about Robb, about how he was as a child. She seemed to close up when they spoke of his role in the war though. Catelyn had smiled when Arwyn asked her how she could be the most useful. 

“If you want to be a Stark, Arwyn,” Catelyn told her seriously, “Then you must steel yourself to the world. We live in a dark miserable little world. All we can do is make the best of it and make sure we know what matters most.” Arwyn knew what that was. She’d heard the words so many times now: family and duty. At one point she remembered that honor went in there somewhere at the end. But she’d never really heard it mentioned all that much. Although, Arwyn supposed, there would probably never be a time when family or duty was not in the equation. 

* * *

Then one day, she learned what Catelyn Stark had been so careful not to talk about. There had been a lot of commotion about the camp and Arwyn had, of course, wanted to know what was going on. Arwyn moved through the crowd until she was close to the front. She could see Catelyn Stark and Jamie Lannister. He was being held by two guards. The sound of horses made her, along with everyone else, look up. Robb had returned. Apparently he didn’t know what was going on either as he threw his mother a questioning glance as he dismounted.

“He tried to run.” Catelyn told him flatly, eyeing the Lannister prisoner with distaste. Arwyn had eventually learned why Catelyn seemed to hate him so much. She had to admit she could sympathize. Robb sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, as though this were a simple inconvenience in his day. Arwyn must have imagined it but she thought she saw a small smirk on his face before he looked up. He was expressionless when he did though.

“Jamie, Jamie, Jamie,” He said it as though he were reprimanding a child for doing something he had been told not to. Jamie just glowered back. “Tell me, are you right or left handed?” Robb asked offhandedly. Arwyn blinked. It had come out of nowhere. Jamie as well looked very confused, his eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether he should actually answer Robb or not. Apparently Jamie couldn’t think of any reason not to answer, since he did.

“Right, but what does that--”

“Break his right leg.” Robb said it so simply that Arwyn thought she must have misheard. Although, she supposed it made sense, since he couldn’t very well run away again if he couldn’t walk. But still. Robb seemed to have decided that his men were taking too long to carry out his orders though. Stepping forward Robb smashed his fist into Jamie’s face; he stumbled back, his front knee now bent outward, there was a sickening crack as Robb’s boot slammed downward right onto Jamie’s right knee. Jamie cried out in inexorable pain, and Arwyn couldn’t help wincing. Jamie was on the ground now, supported only by the two soldiers holding him up by his arms. 

“Do you think I enjoy this?” Robb asked Jamie, although it was clear that Jamie wasn’t expected to answer. Arwyn wasn’t even sure he could hear Robb, for he must have been blinded and deafened by the pain. “I don’t.” Robb told him, although there was something in his eyes that told Arwyn quite the opposite. “So stop making me hurt you.” He said them so coldly and deliberately it was bloodcurdling. 

Arwyn couldn’t look away. She’d never seen her husband like that before. But then again, how could she have? He must have felt her gaze for his eyes suddenly found hers. But what she saw was first shock, then something akin to fear although hardly as strong. Robb looked away, told his mother he needed a moment and walked away. Arwyn’s feet didn’t want to move, but she had to go after him.

“Arwyn,” Catelyn’s voice stopped her. She looked back at Lady Stark, who shook her head. Telling her she shouldn’t go. But she had to. So she ignored it and followed after him. He hadn’t gotten that far. His back was to her.

“Robb?” She called softly. His back tensed and she felt a wave of hurt. He’d never reacted that way to her. She took a step forward.

“Don’t.” He said harshly, making her stop for a moment. “Don’t look at me.” His voice was low and gravelly. But there was some other emotion in his voice that just shouldn’t have been there. Steeling herself she continued towards him. Arwyn knew that no matter how angry he was he would never hurt her, and knowing that made her bolder.

She walked up to him and then around to stand in front of him. He had a hand over his face, but her breath still caught, because he couldn’t really hide it. He was smiling. But it sent chills through her. Robb was trembling, but not from fear or anger. No, if Arwyn had to pick she’d call it excitement. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she was sure they would be wild. This was what he had meant she thought. When he told her she wouldn’t like what she saw. He must have known she would find out at some point. 

Part of her wanted to take a step back, to say he was mad. Because he had enjoyed breaking Lannister’s leg and he had enjoyed hearing him scream in pain. And that was not normal. But then, Arwyn’s family certainly had those who were cruel. Not like this she thought, but still they did not discriminate in who they hurt. Robb did discriminate though. His victims were those who had wronged him, not those who were on his side. Not his family. And knowing she was his family, for he had told her she was, gave her courage to stay where she was and reach out to take his hand and pull it away from his face. 

His blue eyes were indeed what some might call crazed, but she also so that look he had given her when he realized she had been watching. Robb could not be mad, she decided, because he knew he should not feel the way that he did. That much was obvious to Arwyn. He was aware of what was wrong with him and he tried to keep it in check. If she could help him with that, she knew that she would no matter what.

“Are you afraid of me now?” He asked quietly. She thought about it for a moment. The her that had first married him so long ago might have been. Perhaps her vision of him before she had married him, although not as dark as this, had been of a ruthless warrior; one who she should be afraid of.

“No,” She finally said. “I’m afraid of what you’re capable of, but not of you.” Arwyn hopped he believed her. She knew he thought she was weak, and he was right on some level. But something like this she could handle, because she loved him. it was a strange moment to have such a realization. He had been kind to her and she certainly enjoyed being with him, but she had never considered her feelings towards him love. Not until right then. And she knew she had to tell him. “I love you.” Arwyn saw his eyes widen a fraction and then soften. The deep and disturbing joy from moments ago suddenly gone, replaced by something else.

“Thank you.” She smiled up at him and then encircled her arms around him and held him tightly. 

They were much closer after that. He was much more relaxed around her. Catelyn had patted her on the shoulder and said she had underestimated her; that she hadn’t thought she was strong enough to accept that about Robb. Arwyn had told her that of course she would accept him. They were family after all. 

News came of Stannis’ impending attack on King’s Landing, which put them all on edge. While Stannis and Robb had the same enemy, it was for different reasons. And were Stannis to succeed Sansa would still be a prisoner and Robb’s vengeance would either be taken from him or made much harder to attain. Then things went from bad to worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!


	16. Robb

The Lannisters were stretched just as thin as the Starks were. Tywin Lannister ought to have been at King’s Landing for Stannis’ attack. But instead he was there with Robb. A raven had come, telling Robb about the rebellion by the Greyjoys and Boltons, and about Arya’s safe arrival at Winterfell. Robb didn’t like any of it, except of course for the news about Arya. Robb didn’t like that Jon was away at battle. Jon was a good fighter, Robb had seen to that. But he worried for his twin greatly, because Jon was a gentle person. Robb didn’t want to see that taken away by the brutality of battle. He also didn’t like that he wouldn’t be there to protect his brother. The fact that he couldn’t do all that much for them made him angry. Robb took out all that anger on the battlefield. It was a wondrous outlet.

His army had been stuck though, right near Haaren Hall. Tywin Lanniser himself was commanding the troops that now fought against Robb. It was exciting, for Robb had at last found a worthy opponent. Although, being unable to really move forward bothered him a lot. Bran had been spending a good deal of time in battle with him as Grey Wind, something that Robb counted as family time. It had gotten to the point though, where it was almost impossible to get the blood out of Grey Wind’s fur. His mother had told him the best way to do it would be to cut it off at the conclusion of the war. But Robb harbored a silent wonder of whether the very skin and bones of his familiar would be forever crimson like his fur. No amount of sheering would fix that. Robb’s armor would certainly have to be replaced if he ever wanted it to be silver in color again. There was several people’s blood that Robb wouldn’t mind having on him though.

Lannister blood was always welcome. And here Robb was facing Martyn Lannister; after he killed him he would have wiped out that line, having already killed Martyn’s father and brothers. The very thought was delicious. Robb could see how scared Martyn looked. At the onset of the fight he had been determined, but now after seeing Robb’s expression he could not hide his terror. Robb knew his face could be terrifying. He could tell from what he could see in his mother and wife’s eyes when they had seen him. Lion Slayer might have been accurate, but he’d heard whispers that they were calling him something else as well; death. Robb couldn’t help but think it funny. He thought that if he had gotten black hair instead of Jon the image might be slightly more accurate. 

With a sweep of his sword he disarmed the Lannister, the man’s sword hand being completely taken off as well. Slicing at his legs Robb forced him to his knees, and then in one swift motion he decapitated him. The head rolled across the rocky ground, the expression of utter fear frozen on his face. A smirk pulled at Robb’s lips. That would make six for his collection; his last one being the head of Stafford Lannister. Then his eyes were drawn to someone across the field and he couldn’t keep the gleam of joy bursting in his eyes.

At long last Robb would find himself fighting against Tywin Lannister. It had taken long enough, for Tywin was a commander, no longer did he normally enter the battlefield with his men. Cutting through the soldiers in his way Robb advanced on the seasoned commander; his anticipation hardly containable. 

Tywin recognized him immediately as he approached. The old man’s eyes were hard although Robb saw a flash of disturbance at the sight of Robb. His horrid dark grin was still in place. Tywin readied himself. Robb engaged him, slicing down wards and forcing his enemy back. Robb could barely hear the clashing of their metal blades; his blood was rushing so loudly in his ears.

Tywin Lannister knew what he was doing. Robb liked that. But he was very conventional in his fighting style. Years fighting against Arya, who knew she could never win against Robb in a fair fight had used all kinds of unconventional and ingenious ways to try to trip him up. Robb had learned from her just as much as she learned from him. So Robb didn’t stick to the sword during a fight. 

Using an opening Robb slammed his foot into Tywin’s chest. He fell backwards and onto the ground. It seemed won at that point. But then Lannisters and their men never did fight honorably or fairly. One of Tywin’s men suddenly appeared, coming at Robb from the side. Robb had to turn to take care of the man, and in that moment of distraction Twyin was able to get back to his feet. When Robb turned back on Tywin he wasn’t prepared. Tywin snapped the flat side of his sword against Robb’s wrist. 

Robb felt the sting of pain from the old wound there. The one Arya had given him. His hand spasmed as it had then and his blade fell from his grasp. Then in one clean movement Tywin plunged his sword into Robb. He felt it bite into his side and exit on the other side of his body. Robb blinked. Rarely if ever had he been injured. The Lannister had indeed been a worthy opponent. 

Tywin made to pull his sword out but Robb gripped the blade, holding it in place. Robb felt the sharpened edges cutting into his hand. It was funny to Robb, because even though he had been stabbed he was still smiling. It was when Tywin had realized Robb was preventing him from freeing his blade, and he looked up at Robb’s face that he saw it too. Tywin froze. Robb should not be grinning. He knew that. Tywin knew that. But he couldn’t help it.

Still holding Tywin’s sword, Robb curled his other hand into a fist and threw all the strength he had into his arm as he struck Tywin across the face. Tywin’s grip on his sword faltered and he found himself stumbling back, but not falling. Robb was starting to feel lightheaded, but he fought the feeling back. Using the hand he had just used to punch Tywin he unsheathed the sword from his body and, because of the angle he was holding it, Robb slammed the hilt of the weapon into the side of Tywin’s head. This time the man did fall. Using his foot, Robb pushed him down till he was on his back. Then taking Tywin’s sword in both his hands, ignoring the stinging pain of his injured hand, he lifted it high over his head before letting it descend straight down through Tywin Lannister’s head. The unnatural sound of the man’s skull splitting open was like music to his ears. The sword had gone all the way through, and when Robb let go of it the weapon remained upright.

Around him the battle was ending. Many of the men had seen their fight. Those loyal to the Lannisters mostly fled, for their general and employer was dead. Robb’s own men had seen him be stabbed and yet continue to not only stand but continued the fight and win. Robb’s vision swam, and he could hear himself breathing loudly. His knees buckled. Grey Wind was suddenly beside him, Robb leaned an arm on him so that he would stay upright. Robb had too much dignity to fall forward onto his face. Blue eyes looked up at him, filled with worry.

“Thanks, Bran.” Robb smiled and using what strength he had he patted the wolf’s head. He didn’t pass out. He was in shock and he couldn’t really walk or see all that well, but he did not lose consciousness. Blood still flowed from his side both from the front and the back and his hand itched with pain. His men were next to him in moments and they got him back to camp safely and more importantly, alive.

Arwyn had been horrified when she saw him, because this time it was his blood. Robb thought she might start crying, but she had learned not to. Part of Robb was grateful, but another part of him felt guilty. Catelyn was grim faced but she would not show anything else. Still, it was enough to know that she was worried about him. Once he was in his tent and lying on his bed he allowed himself to slip into sleep. 

A few times he woke to semi-consciousness, unable to really move or speak but able to see. Arwyn never seemed to leave his side. She had tended to his wounds and every time he woke she was holding his hand. Robb had never had someone so concerned for him before. When they had first married he had found her concern rather odd and misplaced, but now he found he liked it. She had told him she loved him too. Something he had never really heard before except from Jon and Sansa, occasionally Bran, Rickon, and Arya, and even less so from his mother. He didn’t begrudge her of that though. Robb knew how strongly she cared for him. After all, every single one of her actions were based around her family. That showed how much she loved them. So did she really need to say it?

Finally , after what seemed like forever, Robb fully awoke. It was difficult for him to sit up and Arwyn told him he shouldn’t, that he should rest or drink some water. The water he took, but he decided he had rested long enough.

“How long was I out?” Robb asked. His throat was dry and his voice scratchy.

“Almost a week,” Arwyn told him and she squeezed his hand. He threw her a small smile as he tried to organize his thoughts. That would mean his troops had been just sitting there for an entire week. It wasn’t that long he supposed, but he did not like that it was taking so long to reach King’s Landing. Although, now, with Tywin dead, things would go much faster. He wondered what else had happened. A week was a long time. “Stannis failed in his attack on King’s Landing.” She supplied and he smiled again at how well she seemed to be able to read his mind.

Stannis had failed but Arwyn hadn’t said he died, which meant he was still in the game. He would be regrouping of course. Robb had heard prior to his battle with Tywin that Stannis had attacked King’s Landing by sea. Most likely then, Stannis would try a different tactic. He’d probably try to amass his troops and go for the front door. That had been Robb’s plan from the beginning. Things might end up getting a little messier than Robb had first though now. He had sort of been counting on Cersei taking Stannis out of the picture completely. Now he would either have to figure out some kind of deal with the man, which judging from what he knew of the man, would not be something he would want to do. He’d probably want Robb to step down as King of the North or worse try to Marry Sansa or Arya. His mother entered the tent, a letter in her hand. 

“You’re awake,” she smiled. Robb looked at the letter in her hands. His mother noticed his gaze, and he knew she understood that he was asking for information. She then said, quite offhandedly: “Joffrey’s getting married,” Robb balked at his mother’s words. His face went dark and was about to growl a reply when she continued. “Don’t worry not to Sansa,” Robb breathed a sigh, which was quickly voided by her net words. “Apparently she’s already married.”

“Who?” Robb growled his fists clenching angrily; he suppressed a wince as pain shot through his injured hand. Then she smiled and Robb was more confused now than angry.

“The dwarf, Tyrion.” Robb just stared at her, because to him her smile before was unwarranted. His sister married to a Lannister; it made his stomach churn. Robb noted how his mother did not add his family name when she had named him. “It’s only a name,” she reminded him. “It’s how he treats her that matters, and whose side he’s on.”

“And how is he treating her?” He glowered. Robb felt Arwyn touch his arm, trying to calm him down. It was a sweet gesture but at the moment nothing was going to make Robb feel any better.

“You met him, what do you think?” His mother sniffed; that small smile still tugging at the corner of her lips. Robb had met him, briefly. He tried to think back to what he knew about him. Jon had liked him, he remembered, and his mother had trusted him enough to let him go. Although, at the time, Robb wasn’t sure there was any other logical choice. Then again at the time there didn’t seem to be any option that didn’t lead to war. Robb remembered Tyrion hadn’t wanted to do anything to start a war. The idea seemed to make him rather unhappy. But then Jon felt the same way. Robb finally decided that what mattered was whether Sansa was okay with it; whether she was happy. He wouldn’t be able to find out until he could get to King’s Landing. Another thought occurred to him.

“How’d you come by this?” Information had been tightly kept since the start of the war. No one wanted their enemy to know anything so the only choice usually was to try to intercept messengers.

“Tyrion,” She replied. Robb waited for her to elaborate. “We’ve been keeping in touch ever since he left, well as much as we could. War always seems to hinder communication, especially between enemies.” Robb snorted. He was surprised the dwarf hadn’t been caught in the act by his sister and beheaded for treason, but then again he had seemed to think things through rather well. Robb mulled the information over again; remembered something he had forgotten, and then something else came to mind. He smiled.

“Little King’s getting married is he?” It would not advance the war in any way but it would make him feel better; maybe Sansa too. “It would be rude not to send a gift don’t you think?” Robb looked down to Grey Wind, he was glad he saw blue eyes. “Bran I need you to fetch something for me.” Bran gave him a deadpan look, well as best he could as a wolf, trying to convey a ‘I’m not a dog.’ Robb laughed. “It’ll be worth it. Trust me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! =D  
> Sorry it's shorter, next time will be longer.


	17. Tyrion

He hadn’t been too late. He hadn’t exactly been in time, but he wasn’t too late. Sansa was still alive. Keeping her that way turned out to be easier than he had expected. Cersei had enough sense to know that killing her would only make things much worse. But his sister apparently had no qualms about letting her sadistic young son beat her half to death. It had been painful to see, and not just because it was revolting to see another human being tortured in such a way, but because she had seemed so different than she had back at Winterfell. Sansa had spoken so confidently and powerfully back then when they had first met. Now she said hardly anything, not even when she had been thrown to the floor. Tyrion knew she must know how to fight, Lady Stark would not have allowed her daughter to leave home without such skills. He knew why she didn’t use them, but he still wished she would. Surprisingly, she kept her dignity throughout her ordeals. The only time he’d truly seen her breaking was when Joffrey had tried to have her stripped. But she had braved that as well. Tyrion could only expect it now since she was the daughter of Catelyn Stark.

What really puzzled Tyrion though, was what Sansa had said the day he had arrived; that she had said she wanted to marry Joffrey. Tyrion had needed to think about that. He just couldn’t believe she was doing it solely for the crown. She didn’t seem shallow enough to just want the title and she was smart enough to know she would have no power. The only reason that made sense to him at the time was that she didn’t trust him. Tyrion could understand that. She had met him a grand total of once before she learned to be distrustful and hate all Lannisters. So she had said it because she thought she had to. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it did. Tyrion knew she had no reason to trust him, which meant he would have to fix that, because if he wanted to help her he would need her to trust him. He decided that the first thing he should do was get her away from Joffrey.

His father, Tywin, had named Tyrion the Hand of the King. Cersei seemed oddly pleased by this. Tyrion learned why. The Hand was the one who did most of the heavy lifting. Cersei had been handling most of it prior to his return to King’s Landing. What Tyrion found was that he was stuck in his office all day trying to figure out how the Kingdom was even still running. The treasury was as dry as a raison and the war was just exacerbating matters. 

Stannis was, of course, preventing supply ships from arriving at their ports, which meant all the supplies had to come by land. That not only took longer but it also meant there were less supplies with each trip. With all these matters forced upon him, Tyrion found he had little time to try to keep a watchful eye on Sansa. He had tried to of course, and had thought he was doing a decent job, but then a few days later he would see fresh bruises on her body.

Cersei had been somewhat avoiding him since his return home. Something he had to get past seeing as he needed to talk to her. Tyrion no longer thought confronting her about her attempted plot would be worthy anything. It would probably do exactly nothing. But he knew Cersei was no stranger to violence, not that Baratheon ever hit her, but she had witnessed it all her life and their father had on occasion felt he needed to put her in her place when she was being particularly nasty. So, perhaps, he decided he could try to sway Cersei to get Joffrey to leave Sansa alone. Tyrion knew that was a long shot, which was why he had another idea as well.

“I really don’t have time.” Cersei told him tersely when he had entered her chambers and asked for an audience. Yes, she certainly looked oh so busy, sitting there combing her hair.

“Are you really that unhappy to see me alive?” He asked her casually. Cersei didn’t even bat an eye at his accusation.

“Not really,” she replied. “You always were a disappointment.” She smiled and he saw it from the reflection of her mirror. “You never did know when to die.” 

Tyrion had almost died as a baby. He was disfigured, something that never changed, and the Septa had not thought he would last the night, especially as his mother had died the moment he had been born. He was certainly cursed, they had whispered. Indeed he had been very weak and his childhood had been plagued with accidents; usually dealing with his trouble walking, his inability to ride, until a special saddle was designed for him, or his wholly unattractive features which drew not only ridicule but stones as well. That was until his father put a stop to it. Tyrion had thought his father had cared about him then, now he knew Tywin just saw it as his special privilege to make Tyrion’s life miserable.

“Quite the persistent little cancer, aren’t I?” Tyrion said cheerily. He saw Cersei roll her eyes. Yes, he was tiring of this as well. Besides, he had come there for more than just a lovely chat with his older sister. There was silence for a moment as he thought about the best way to lead the conversation. “Can you really not control your son?”

“Excuse me?” Cersei asked, swiveling on her chair to look at him. Her eyes were glowering, which made Tyrion smile inside. She seemed to think he was goading her, and perhaps he was; just a little. “Joffrey doesn’t need controlling.” Cersei told him coldly.

“He’s beating Sansa Stark to death,” his voice was dry and flat. “You think that doesn’t need controlling?” Cersei snorted turning back to her mirror. But she didn’t start brushing her hair again. Tyrion noticed how her grip on the brush tightened, her knuckles turning white.

“I can’t take that from him.” Cersei was uncharacteristically quiet when she spoke. “You’d understand if you knew anything about him.” She snapped, her fiery temperament returned. It was true; Tyrion did not know much about his nephew. While he spent some time in King’s Landing he was mostly either traveling or at Casterly Rock. The most he knew was that the boy was spoiled by his mother and had an ill-mannered personality. Tyrion had thought he must have inherited everything from his mother, now he knew better. House Lannister was filled with cruel or simply disgusting descendants, and now, knowing the boy’s heritage his terrible attitude made much more sense. Cersei was not as sadistic as her son, in fact Cersei would rather avoid violence all together, going for a quick and silent kill; but other Lannisters certainly resembled Joffrey to a degree.

“Why are you letting him do this?” Tyrion asked straight out, crossing his arms and waiting for his sister’s response. He saw her face tighten and her lips press together in a slight frown. She seemed to be deciding whether to actually tell him or not. “Surely you can see how wrong this is?” He implored, trying to draw out whatever it was that she didn’t want to say.

“I know!” She snapped, her temper momentarily flaring, and then her expression fell. “I know.” There was a hint of sadness in her that Tyrion had never seen before. Sighing, she rested her elbows on her vanity and placed her head in her hands. She wasn’t crying; she just seemed very upset. Finally she looked up. “He asked me once, when he was no more than six, why he was empty.” Tyrion’s brow furrowed as he tried to understand what exactly she was saying. “I told him he was being silly, that of course he wasn’t empty.” Her voice trembled slightly as she recalled the memory. “He shook his head and told me that when he looked at others he saw there was something inside them, something in their eyes, but that when he looked in the mirror he saw nothing. Only hollowness.” She bit her lip and shut her eyes at the intense emotions. “He’s afraid of mirrors.” Cersei told him. “He’s afraid because of the emptiness.” Tyrion was speechless. Yet she continued. “How do you tell your child to stop doing the one thing that makes him feel whole?” Her eyes met his in the mirror. As comprehension dawned Tyrion couldn’t help but feel sick.

“He feels whole when he beats Sansa Stark?” Tyrion couldn’t believe what his sister was telling him. Cersei didn’t answer his question though. She seemed almost in a trance, the words just falling from her lips as though they were something she had always wanted to say but had been too afraid of, or perhaps never given the chance, to say. 

“He’s so lonely.” She continued. “Always so afraid I was going to leave him. He used to be with me all the time.” He heard snap as the hairbrush she was holding broke under her grip. “When I had to run the kingdom I had no time for him. So he turned to Sansa Stark.” She practically hissed the girl’s name. “Now it’s her he clings to.” There it was. Cersei would not help Sansa because she hated her. She felt that Joffrey had been taken away from her. Cersei would try to focus his sick needs somewhere else even though in all likelihood she could. Cersei seemed to snap out of whatever state she had been prior, seeming to just now notice Tyrion once again. “Get out. I told you I was busy.” Tyrion would have to try again then.

“I did come here for a reason,” he told her. She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Renly Baratheon is dead.” Cersei turned to look at him again, her eyes wide. “He was killed by Stannis.” He could see her processing the information, clearly trying to decide what to do with it. Tyrion knew what he wanted her to do though, so he had to step in again before she landed on a decision that might be different from what he wanted. “Renly had many men swear fealty to him. Now all those troops have no one to follow; except for Stannis or maybe even the Stark boy.” Cersei’s eyes snapped to his and then narrowed. Oh she knew what he was doing, but there would be little option for choice in this situation. “Unless of course you give them a reason to join you.”

He was taking a risk here. And he knew Lady Stark would have been furious, for he was giving her enemies a larger force than before. But Tyrion had faith in the Lion Slayer. He knew Robb could win no matter what the odds. Or at least he hoped so.

“Who?” She asked, her voice dripping with venom. Cersei did not like having to agree with her brother on anything. But she understood, just as Tyrion had hoped, that she had no other way out.

“The Tyrell girl,” Tyrion said simply. “She was Renly’s wife; if Joffrey married her all those forces would be yours.” Cersei nodded in acknowledgement but her expression was still that of distaste. Obviously she did not want to break the engagement between Sansa and her son, but she would. Tyrion knew she would, for even though she had an explosive temper she was not impulsive like Joffrey. No, Cersei could appreciate what needed to be done even if she didn’t like it. She’d married Baratheon after all.

* * *

Tyrion was once again in his office trying to figure out how to get the kingdom’s finances in order when she arrived. A small knock alerted him to her presence, but he hadn’t realized it was her until he glanced up from his work with an extremely irritated look on his face; Sansa Stark. 

“Do you have a moment?” She asked. It was strange looking at her. She resembled her mother in many ways but in others she was quite different. There was some small sliver of vulnerability that made her far more human than Catelyn Stark.

“Please,” Tyrion gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Sansa’s eyes took in the room around her as she approached the chair and then gracefully seated herself in it. “What can I do for you, Lady Stark?” Her gaze met his and again he felt that relief when he read absolutely nothing in her eyes, or rather, no disgust or contempt. 

“Please, it’s just Sansa.” She smiled a little. He gave a short smile back in acquiescence. Only then did she reveal her reason for coming. “I never thanked you,” Tyrion blinked. If memory served he had nothing to gain her thanks, unless of course she had already heard that her engagement had been voided. Cersei hadn’t announced anything yet though, which made Tyrion worried. “For saving me, in the throne room that day,” Sansa reminded him. Tyrion felt a little surprised, for he had thought he had been rather late in helping her. Looking at her though, Tyrion could tell she hadn’t just come to thank him. No, there was something in her face that he recognized very well, for he had seen it in his own face many times: loneliness. “What are you working on?” She asked craning her head to look over the large wooden desk and all the papers and books that covered it. 

He knew she didn’t really care in all likelihood. She probably just wanted to have a real conversation with someone. Tyrion decided she would not be overly interested in the kingdom’s finances, so instead he told her about the war. That, he knew, would be of interest to her. He didn’t know much about what was going on with her brother and mother, other than they were descending upon the south like a storm. But he knew about what was going on in King’s Landing. He told her about Stannis’ impending attack on the capital. Tyrion explained how the port had been cut off and how, in preparation for an attack by sea, which was what was most likely, the boom barrier had been put up; that is a huge metal chain that went from one side of the bay to the other. It worked well for cutting off or rather slowing down sea attacks. Tyrion knew, and he told her as much, that Stannis would attack one of the two forts that held the barrio in place. So it would not protect them forever; it would simply slow him down giving them enough time to decide the best course of action. Tyrion had been right. Sansa was very interested in what was going on and asked him who was going to be commanding and placing orders when the attack arrived.

“That would be me, Lady Sansa.” She’d blinked at that, surprised he supposed. Cersei of all people had given that charge to him. Apparently, even though she hated him, she could appreciate that he had some degree of intelligence and so put him in charge of defending the city. He’d told her rather dryly that he was surprised she would put her wellbeing into his hands. She had smirked at that, and replied that he too was a Lannister and would die just like the rest of them should Stannis breach the city, so she was sure he would do his best.

Tyrion had barely noticed the fading light and they both found that they had been talking for quite a while. It was already past dinner. Sansa told him thank you again and rose to leave. Tyrion wanted to ask her something though. He wasn’t sure whether he really should or not, but he decided to anyway.

“Why do you let him do it to you?” He asked her just as she had reached the door. She stopped, her back still facing him. Tyrion knew she must know how to defend herself, how to fight. Finally Sansa turned back to him.

“I’d rather be beaten than dead.” She gave him a small smile. It wasn’t a real smile though; it was one of those detestable polite smiles. 

“I won’t let them kill you.” Tyrion told her and he was surprised to hear such strength and emotion in his voice. Sansa was as well. She cocked her head to the side and looked him over and Tyrion couldn’t help feeling a little self-conscious. He took the chance though, to look over her as well. It was odd, her body was still very young but her eyes said she was much older than her years.

“You seem like a very honest person, Lord Tyrion.” She began slowly. “I have no friends at King’s Landing and even though I’ve given you little reason to, you have been very kind to me.” Tyrion would hardly say he was kind to her; he had done next to nothing so far that had relieved her suffering. “So tell me,” Sansa caught his eyes with her own. “Can I trust you?”

“I hope so,” he answered after a moment. Tyrion did want her to trust him and he wanted to protect her. But she could not possibly know his intentions were good and not some Lannister trick. He’d cursed his name many a time and right then was another. Then she gave him a real smile, one that made his heart stop, and then left. He took a deep breath and knew he had to find a way to protect King’s Landing, and to protect Sansa Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!  
> I skipped back in time a bit for this chapter...


	18. Daenerys

Drogo had taken Dany so far east of her goal that it took weeks for her to cross the giant planes. She had previously been in the Dothraki Sea and now she was just passing through the Forest of Qohor. Dany had traveled an immeasurable distance, but in many ways she realized it had actually been advantageous. 

They had come across another large Dothraki tribe. Ignoring Jorah’s warnings, Dany had challenged the Khal of the tribe to a one on one fight; winner takes all. She’d had a similar situation as that with Mago, with her opponent using a less superior weapon and of not taking her seriously. Dany had not come away unscathed. He had slashed her diagonally across her midsection; it had left a scar. She recognized she could not rely on the same circumstances for winning each time. While Jorah had taught her more now that he realized she would not leave the fighting to her men, Dany was still handicapped by the fact that she had not been raised to be a warrior as her enemies had. In any case, Dany had won; a second bell now woven into her braided hair and her army’s size had increased greatly.

Her dragons were growing, although not as quickly as Dany would have liked. She did not keep them caged as had been suggested, for she knew they would not run off or get lost. They would follow her forever. It was rather disturbing though, watching her children descend on the dead Khal and eating his body so enthusiastically. But they seemed to grow more after tasting the flesh of man; now they were the size of a large dog. They could now spit flames from their mouths, though still small and short it was still beautiful. Their breath was hot enough to melt steel. Dany talked to her dragons as though they could understand her, and sometimes she thought maybe they could. News that dragons were no longer dead to the world had not spread, for no one not under Dany’s command knew they existed.

Dany had heard no news of what was happening in the west. She had been in the middle of an empty land so it was to be expected but when she reached the city of Qohor she had learned about the war between kings and the fight for the iron throne. Dany couldn’t help the smile that had formed on her face; her enemies might very well destroy and weaken each other so much that a victory for her would be assured. Yet in Qohor, Dany found herself against a new enemy, one she had not anticipated. She hadn’t really thought she would have to war before she arrived in Westeros. But then, if she could bend things to her will perhaps she would not have to.

Qohor was currently home to the Second Sons, an army of wandering mercenaries. Jorah had told Dany about their known ruthlessness, about their tradition of signing their name in blood within their sacred book and about their feared leader, whose name was known even in Westeros: Mero. She had thought about what her options were, and then about what she wanted, for her want was what truly drove her actions. Dany decided she wanted the Second Sons. They would bow to her and they would follow her across the seas to Westeros. Jorah had thought her mad, telling her she would lose half her army even if she did win in a battle with them. She had waved him off however, telling him she had no intention of having a battle with them. No, she would settle things the Dothraki way. First she would need to seek out Mero, which turned out to be easier than she had expected. He had come to her.

“Come to your death have you, little girl?” His rudeness irritated Dany at once. He would have to die and not just because she didn’t like him. She let none of her feelings show on her face.

“No,” Dany smiled pleasantly. “I’ve come for your army.” He snorted at that.

“You think I’ll contract to you?” Mero laughed. “You must be crazy, girl.” Dany herself had thought that before, especially when she had decided what she would do. But it was the best thing Dany could think of.

“Oh, no, you don’t understand,” Dany gave a short laugh, making Mero’s eyes narrow. “I’m not contracting your men.” She smiled again. “Your men will follow me because I am their King,” Mero blinked at her use of the male honorific. “And because I am The Dragon.” And she was. 

Just as her children were still small so was Dany, but just as her dragons did her power would grow until it was truly horrifying to look at. Yes, she was a dragon, a baby perhaps, but still a dragon. Mero scoffed, but she could see the confusion and apprehension in his gaze. Her words had been so serious and without hesitation. 

“My men follow me,” Mero growled at last. “And I will not follow you.” Dany knew that though, she’d know it for a while now. 

“Then fight me,” Dany said simply. He stiffened. “One on one, none of our men need be killed over this.” It was the Dortharki way and if she could get him to consent she knew she had a very good shot at winning and in increasing her army. He looked almost skeptical as he thought over her proposal. 

“I will add the name of Targaryen to the list of those I’ve killed.” Mero had agreed. He seemed to be rather smug about the whole affair. Good. “Dusk,” he told her and she nodded. Perfect.

* * *

Jorah had learned by now he could not stop Dany from fighting Mero, so all he could do was support her as best he could. Dany appreciated it. There were preparations that needed to be made before her fight; she had sent Jorah down to look at where the fight would take place and he assured her that what she needed was in fact already there. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Jorah asked her as she was wetting her hair. Dany was silent for a long time. Then as she began wringing out her hair she answered.

“It’s exactly what I want,” Jorah had sighed in frustration and ran a hand through his hair. Dany could see how this was affecting him although she wasn’t sure why he seemed to feel so strongly about it. She caught him looking at her as she was lathering the substance over her arms and legs. He looked away, either ashamed or embarrassed, she didn’t know. Dany stopped what she was doing to talk to him seriously. “The Dothraki are fine warriors, but I need more men and I need them to have skills with swords and field combat, not just riders. When we get to Braavos I will need to do the same.”

“Then use your loot to purchase them,” Jorah immediately responded. “Don’t put your life on the line!” She pressed her lips tightly together and frowned.

“I do not want men who follow me for gold,” Dany had seen the loyalty of the Dothraki, which came from an acknowledgement of superior power. “I want them to follow me out of devotion.” His brow had furrowed, but she knew he understood what she meant. Dany returned to her previous task; preparing for the battle.

Her dragons would stay hidden Dany decided, a good decision in the end. Dusk came quickly and Dany found herself in the square facing Mero, the area lit with torches. His men, the Second Sons, watching from his side, and her own Dothraki warriors backed her. A fight between armies would not break out though.

Mero used a sword of Valyrian steel, a dangerous weapon. Dany had to use a sword this time as well, instead of the dagger she had been using previously. She had known this would happen eventually, so she’d had some practice in using it. But her sword skills were hardly good enough to take Mero on. Not in a fair fight anyway. She could see how Mero was looking her over. Her hair was wet, her clothes damp, and her skin glistening. He dismissed it though, as she had expected. 

“Don’t die, Khal,” Jorah said quietly behind her. Dany smiled and turned to him. It was clear he was worried, but then when was he not? She found his concern while flattering to be unnecessary. Dany wished she could say ‘I won’t’ but she wasn’t sure whether that would be true or not. Her life was on the line, and although she had confidence in her abilities she knew there was always the chance that she would lose and die. 

But power was worth it and to gain it something must always be placed on the table. It was a gamble, one that was never certain. All she could do was smile and nod, before turning back to her opponent, her face becoming a mask of stone.

He ran at her and she prepared herself. She dodged as he swung at her and blocked his downward swing. Dany could feel her arm muscles straining; he was much stronger than her. He was pressing down, trying to make her drop her sword or push her to the ground. She couldn’t have that. 

Risking her footing, Dany slammed her foot into his gut pushing him back and freeing her from her battle in strength with him. Slapping his blade away on his next attack she jumped and elbowed him in the face. Mero took half a step back and Dany couldn’t keep her eyes from widening a fraction. He looked completely unhurt. She’d used enough force to break his nose, she had thought. They circled each other.

Mero attacked again, and while she dodged his sword his fist made contact with her face. Clearly he had been after payback. Dany recovered quickly, but her lip had split and she could feel blood trickling down from her nose. Using the back of her hand she wiped it away, smearing it across her face in the process. She decided it was time. Dany had not wanted to be injured too badly in the fight, or die for that matter, so she would do what she had planned. 

It had turned out much better than she had expected though. Mero had run at her again and as he had she had been thrown backwards into the wall, right next to one of the torches. It was so perfect Dany couldn’t have planned it better. Her silver-blond hair ignited and the fire spread instantly. Her clothes, her skin. She was on fire. It had not been water that had drenched her hair and clothes or shone on her skin. No, it was petrol. 

Mero’s eyes had widened then for a moment she could tell he had thought he had won. Then Dany took a step forward. She saw fear flash in his eyes as he realized she was not screaming in pain of actually being burned at all. 

Dany was smiling, coated in red and orange flames; her purple eyes shining dangerously. Mero took a step back, swallowed, and then attacked. Dany stepped forward and grabbed his wrist, stopping his attack. He was indeed much stronger than her, but his strength meant nothing as the heat of the fire burned his skin and clothes. He cried out and his sword fell from his grasp. 

Mero was too shocked and scared to move and she took that moment to plunge her sword into his belly. Her other hand dropped his wrist and moved to his face, leaving her hand print branded into his skin. Coughing and sputtering, Dany watched as the lights left his eyes. First he fell to his knees before her and then backwards. His eyes were still open. There was silence all around her.

“I am The Dragon,” She shouted and then repeated it in Dothraki. Dany was still consumed by the flames although they were beginning to die down, their fuel sources being consumed rather quickly. Her clothes had been leather so while they were singed and charred she was still dressed. “I am your King,” she continued and the fire within her began to burn as well. “And you will bow before me!” At her final words the air was filled with the cries of her children and as they emerged from their hiding place and circled around her.

They could do nothing but comply. Her own warriors were cheering and shouting while the Second Sons were still speechless, but they fell to their knees as they watched the fire slowly dissipate around her. Dany was completely unblemished, for the fire had burned away the blood. They had joined her of course; there was no need to negotiate gold, for they would be following her of their own free will, not as paid soldiers. Jorah told her he had heard whispers from those in the Second Son that she was a god. Dany smirked at that. She liked it.

She had commissioned ships after that, using some of the loot she had amassed, to sail from the coast to Braavos. There she was sure to find more warriors and after that she would sail across the way, letting the winds take her to her throne. She would end up head farther north than she had anticipated. But something inside her told her she needed to go north.

“What are those islands?” Dany had asked Jorah as they approached Westeros.

“The Iron islands*, Khal.” 

There she would find the winter but her fire would burn it to ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!
> 
> * see chapter 14 notes


	19. Arya

Arya had traveled north alone, towards the Wall. Her journey had been fast, for she had taken a horse. Nymeria was able to keep up easily. Arya had never thought it could get colder than winter at Winterfell, but as she reached the Wall she found it to be a hundred times colder than she had ever experienced. 

She could see her breath in the air before her, and just over the ridge was the Wall and the tower for the Night’s Watch. If Arya had been expecting a warm welcome she was disappointed, for Yoren was not happy at news of her arrival.

“What were you thinking? Coming here?” He hissed. Arya had expected his reaction or at least knew it had been a possibility. “I’d just gotten you back to Winterfell safely and the minute I leave you come here?” 

Arya crossed her arms and glowered, but she could tell he was happy to see her, regardless of how angry he seemed to be with her. He sighed and then she saw him smile just a little. 

“It’s good to see you.” Yoren reached out and touched her shoulder. “But what are you doing here?”

“Uncle Benjen,” Arya responded simply, he nodded in understanding. Then she saw him comprehend what exactly she meant to do. “I’m going after him, and you can’t stop me.” She wasn’t angry when she said it. 

It was just the way things were going to be no matter what he said. Yoren seemed to realize this and she saw worry in his eyes.

“I’m going with you.” They both turned towards the door to see Gendry standing there. 

Arya wanted to run and hug him but her pride wouldn’t seem to let her, so she settled for a bright smile. She felt Yoren’s hand grip her shoulder a little tighter.

“Oh, no you’re not.” Yoren was angry this time. “You’re not even graduated; I’m not letting you go get yourself killed—”

“But you’ll let Arya?” Gendry asked defiantly. Arya was surprised he could sound like that, he’d always been so demure and easy going. Part of her liked that it was her who had brought this reaction out of him. “I’m going.” 

Yoren ground his teeth and Arya thought he’d bust a blood vessel. He knew he couldn’t stop them; knew he couldn’t do anything. She knew he wouldn’t be able to go with them either. He had to stay and take care of everything at the Wall. The best he could do now was provide them horses, tell him what he knew concerning Benjen Stark’s disappearance and wish them luck. 

Arya wanted to leave immediately. She was grateful for Gendry wanting to come with her but she also knew he might very well be in danger. She had half a mind to leave him behind to protect him, but she decided she was more than capable of protecting him herself during the journey. 

Gendry seemed to have foreseen her dilemma since she found him awake before her and already settling the horses when she awoke. It was before the sun had even started rising.

“I hope you didn’t think you could leave me behind.” He said with a smile. Arya couldn’t help grinning back, although she looked more smug than happy.

“Never crossed my mind,” she replied cheerily. Gendry snorted at that, he knew her well enough to know it had indeed crossed her mind but that was alright. He’d made sure she couldn’t leave without him. 

Arya knew Gendry understood that she was a well-trained fighter and could take on anything and Nymeria always had her back; so she wasn’t sure whether he thought she needed the extra backup or whether he’d just missed her so much he wanted some one-on-one time. She scoffed at the latter thought; it was probably because he was worried.

“You don’t have to go, you know.” Arya told him seriously. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“I know you’re strong enough to handle anything, Arya.” Arya couldn’t help feeling happy that he thought that about her. “But, you don’t really seem to take care of yourself do you?” Gendry gave her a grin and she blinked. 

“Don’t be such a girl.” She snapped and then turned back to saddling her own horse. Arya could feel her face had turned red. 

She hadn’t actually meant what she’d just said and wasn’t sure why she couldn’t just say ‘thank you’ or something. Jon was just like that too. Always trying to make sure she was taken care of. She wasn’t sure why she felt so happy that Gendry wanted to take care of her. Arya berated herself for thinking such foolish things.

Yoren had been there to see them off and had told them to watch out for one another. Gendry had replied, jokingly, that he’d keep her out of trouble. Arya had gotten a little irritated at that and said they needed to move. 

So they had headed north. 

It got colder and colder as they traveled in part due to the chilling wind, which kept getting stronger and stronger, but to Arya it seemed that they were in fact climbing in altitude. Even Nymeria with her thick fur shivered every now and again. 

True to his word Bran had kept an eye on her; Arya saw those blue eyes almost every day. He had also discovered a way to get information to her, although it was rather difficult and sometimes funny.

One night as Arya was about to sleep Nymeria had pulled on her sleeve. She grumbled annoyed but when she saw the blue eyes that seemed to be filled with intense emotions she knew something had happened. 

She’d sat up and focused her attention on her wolf. Gendry was already asleep next to her. Both of them were as close as they could be to their fire. Nymeria, or rather Bran, sat there expectantly. Arya ran through the names of her family members until he stopped her with a nod. Rob.

“What happened?” Bran seemed to try to think about how he could tell her. Finally he seemed to have come up with something. He flopped over and lay on his side unmoving. 

“He’s dead?” Arya almost screeched a shot of panic running through her. 

But Bran lifted his head and shook his head emphatically. Arya sighed in relief. Then she thought about it some more, as to what Bran was trying to tell her. 

“He’s… injured?” She guessed. Bran nodded and Arya felt fear and worry coil in her belly. “But… is he okay?” She almost whispered. Bran gave a semi nod and semi shake of the head; a maybe; great. Bran sat up again and Arya realized he had more to tell her. “Jon?” He shook his head. “Mother?” Again a no. “You? Rickon?” That left “Sansa?”

Bran nodded and Arya prepared herself for the worst. Before she had left Winterfell they had known Stannis was on his way to attack so if he had been successful she might very well be dead. 

She waited for Bran, and again he seemed to be trying to figure out how to tell her. At last he looked like he had found a way. He grasped her cloaked and pulled it off her and she yelped at the frigid air. Then he grabbed one of the extra cloaks she’d been using as a pillow and threw it as best he could over her. 

Arya was confused. 

Bran waited expectantly as she thought about it. He’d changed her cloaks. Something clicked; wedding ceremonies worked in such a way, where the groom would remove the cloak of his bride’s House and replace it with one of his House. 

“She’s married?” She did screech this time, and she saw Gendry stir. Bran nodded. “Joffrey?” Arya asked darkly. 

Thankfully Bran shook his head. Arya was somewhat stumped at this point though. She didn’t know that many people at King’s Landing. In the end she couldn’t figure out who it was and Bran was unable to help her any further. Still he had given her some very surprising and disturbing news. 

She realized though now what Jon had meant. Bran’s communication skills as a wolf were incredibly limited. Arya wasn’t sure what she could really do with the information other than know everyone except for two of her older siblings were alright. It made her feel a little better though. 

She told Gendry nothing, for if she did she would have to explain her brother’s warg connection, which was completely unbelievable if not seen for one’s self. But he’d asked her the next day if everything was alright since she looked a little upset. Arya had blamed it on the weather.

* * *

She felt like giving up at that point. They had seen no one and there were no tracks because of the heavy snow, which never seemed to stop. Arya had been right about them climbing upward though. They’d found themselves at the top of a cliff looking down into a canyon like area. She could see the black stone peeking out of the snow in large patches.

“Did you see that?” Gendry suddenly asked, she could hear a tremor in his voice, as though he’d seen a ghost.

“See what?” Arya asked, squinting to look into the area below. There was nothing but ice, snow and rock. Then for a moment she thought she saw the snow move over the black rock, or at least something snow covered.

“That!” Gendry said pointing to where she had just been looking. She’d thought it had been a trick of the light or maybe the wind had blown the snow. But she felt cold inside, and not because of the temperature, no it was because the snow that had ‘blown’ over the black rocks were shaped like men. 

But that was impossible. Arya had told him it was probably just the wind, although she herself was not completely convinced. She decided they needed to find a safe path down so they could continue on, so they headed west to try to find a steady declining pathway. They had needed to stop for the night. So Gendry started a fire and they huddled together for warmth.

“How do you know we’re going the right way,” he suddenly asked her. She thought it was rather late to be asking such a question. But she thought about it for a minute.

“I don’t know,” Arya finally said. “I just… know it. I can feel it.” She wasn’t sure that made sense but it was true. 

Something inside her was telling her north was the direction and something told her she would find uncle Benjen. She shivered and Gendry pulled her closed. He didn’t ask her anything else after that. They fell asleep cuddled together, and it was the warmest night’s rest Arya’d had in a long time. 

It was dawn when she awoke. For a moment Arya thought the sun had woken her, and then she heard the crunch of snow. Gendry was still with her and Nymeria was curled up with them. Someone was there. 

Shaking Gendry awake, she held a finger to her lips to tell him to be quiet. He sat up rubbing his eyes, and then he heard it too for she saw him tense. Arya got up and carefully drew Needle; Gendry drew his own sword. Nymeria sat up yawning before becoming alerted to that fact that something was wrong. 

Arya’s hands were freezing even in her gloves and she had a hard time keeping her grip tight on her sword. She looked down to the still burning fire and wondered whether that was what drew whoever it was that was there. Although Arya had no idea what kind of person would be living in such a desolate and dead place. 

Arya gasped and almost dropped her sword when the figure appeared out of the cloud of white snow whipping through the air. As it was they could only see a few meters in front of them, everything else was white. 

But the man before them was white as well; frozen solid. The only color the man had was his glowing blue eyes. Arya recognized the face though, she’d seen it so often in her childhood.

“Uncle Benjen?” She lowered her sword without realizing it and she took a step forward. Arya heard Gendry hiss her name in warning but she barely heard him. Her chest ached as she looked at her once dear family member. 

“Uncle Benjen.” She repeated, this time it wasn’t a question. 

But he didn’t answer her, he just kept advancing forward. He reached out a hand and she realized he was going to try to grab her throat. Tears stung her eyes, but they froze as they started to trail down her cheeks. She had to kill him. It would be a mercy she knew, but it still hurt. 

Just as his hand touched her neck she ran him through; her sword slicing right through his body and into his heart. She knew not to expect blood but she had expected him to die. Arya’s eyes widened when she saw her attack had done nothing. His hands closed around her neck and she felt the iciness of his hands burn her. 

Needle was still in him; she pushed it in further until it came out the other side, yet it looked as though he hadn’t even felt it. Arya was choking now. She heard Nymeria growl and try to bite his wrists, but he didn’t feel her teeth at all, and his hands didn’t budge even when Nymeria used all her strength to try to pull them away. 

Through the wind she heard Gendry call out her name again. Then the beast’s head, for he could not have been a man, was on fire. The creature still didn’t seem to really feel it but his grip tightened and Arya pulled herself and Needle free. 

Gendry was behind it with a torch from their fire. She was surprised at how easy it burned. It didn’t look dead though, the fire seemed to be dying, whatever had been on it that had fueled the fire seemed to have been dying out.

“Come on!” Gendry yelled, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her towards their horses. 

Arya watched as what had used to be her uncle Benjen continued to walk forward. And then she saw a truly terrible sight. Through the white wind she saw hundreds of thousands of blue eyes looking out lifelessly. Behind the creature Gendry had burned more like it appeared. It was an army of the dead. Walkers that were pure white with cold. 

They rode through the nights, for they had to get as far ahead of those creatures as they could. They had to get back to the Wall and warn them. She looked down at Nymeria running beside them and wondered where Bran was. He had needed to see that; they must have been what he had seen in his dreams. 

More importantly Bran could let everyone else know. King’s Landing and the Iron islands were not where their armies should be marching. No, they needed to go north or there would be nothing for her brothers to come home to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


	20. Arwyn

Robb was recovering well, although considering he kept wanting to not rest it might take longer, which is exactly what Arwyn had told him. He had told her and his mother that he couldn’t sit around doing nothing, his men would become restless and Sansa was still stuck in King’s Landing. 

Lady Stark had reminded him about her marriage to Tyrion, which would keep her safe. Robb didn’t seem to fully accept that. His mother also told him that his men were far from restless as they’d been going nonstop since the beginning. And besides, his men thought no less of him and would follow him no matter what especially now. 

After his epic, and they were calling it epic, defeat of Tywin Lannister he was elevated even more by his troops. Robb didn’t seem to really care about any of that though. Arwyn knew it wasn’t modesty, he actually didn’t care. He’d rather be on the battlefield then be proclaimed a legendary commander.

Then Arwyn had received a raven. It was from her father. He wanted her and Robb to come to the wedding between her half-sister, Roslin, and Catelyn’s brother Edmure Tully. 

It was to be held at Riverrun; it would be backtracking, something Robb did not like and would not do, she knew. Lord Frey did not know of Robb’s injury, Lady Stark had made sure to try to keep it as quiet as possible, lest Stannis or even Cersei decide to attack. Even if they did, Robb’s army would most likely win but Robb would not be happy about missing it, and he’d lose a good chunk of his men just due to knowing their commander was not on the field with them.

She had shown the letter to Catelyn, which she thought to be the most prudent thing to do. Catelyn had looked over the letter for a long time, and at last told Arwyn to write back saying they would go. Arwyn protested saying Robb shouldn’t be moved in his state. 

“He’s not going.” Catelyn told her casually. “I am. But make sure when you write back you say it’s Robb that will be coming, or at least be vague about it.” 

Arwyn nodded and wrote the letter. She was starting to have a very bad feeling about all of it. Apparently Catelyn had too. She told Robb about it and he seemed fine about it, glad that he wouldn’t be going.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Arwyn said softly. 

Robb took her hand and patted her on the head. It didn’t comfort her as much as it should have, mostly because of the uneasy feeling in her gut. 

“You better not make it worse while I’m gone.” She told him. He laughed at that and promised he wouldn’t strain himself. She wasn’t sure she fully believed him but she thought he did mean it when he said it. She’d kissed him goodbye and gone to meet Catelyn.

They rode out early, just the two of them with two guardsmen and Lady, who never left Catelyn’s side. It was a couple days ride from where they had been at Haaren Hall and Arwyn was dead tired when they arrived. 

Catelyn however looked perfectly fine. She felt envy towards her mother in law; she wished she could be more like her, but as Catelyn had told her before, she was soft. Riverrun was a pretty place; Catelyn had told her about her time growing up there. 

Arwyn wondered whether the memories were truly fond, for as they approached the castle she saw Catelyn looking out at the grassy glade and the forests beyond with an expression Arwyn couldn’t quite name.

Arwyn could tell her father was furious to find out it was Catelyn Stark that had accompanied her instead of her husband. But he said nothing. There was something very off about everything, but she wasn’t exactly sure what it was. 

It was her father for one; he had been looking at her more than he ever had in her entire life. Yet, there was something else and Arwyn could help the feeling of dread that washed over her. The wedding was beautiful, the bride beautiful and the groom looking like he thought he was the luckiest man in the world. It was the complete opposite of her own wedding. 

During the reception Arwyn was standing back with Catelyn watching as people danced and talked. She could see her mother in law’s eyes taking in every detail, seemingly searching or keeping an eye out for something. Suddenly Arwyn found herself pulled aside by her half-sister Jyanna, whom she shared a close relationship with; that is until Jyanna was married.

“What happened to you?” Jyanna sounded excited and was smiling widely. Arwyn was taken aback for a moment

“What are you talking about?” Arwyn asked puzzled. Jyanna blinked seemingly shocked that she had no idea what she was talking about.

“Arwyn,” Jyanna said, laughing a little as she spoke. “You’re beautiful!” Now Arwyn was the one who blinked and was now more confused than before. “Not Roslin beautiful,” Jyanna clarified, which didn’t really clear up anything for her; for Arwyn there was only one kind of beauty and that was what Roslin had. 

Jyanna grasped her hands with her own, “Your shoulders aren’t slumped, you’re not constantly looking at the floor,” she smiled again. “You look confident you look,” it seemed to dawn on Jyanna just then the exact word she wanted. “Happy.” 

That was certainly true. Arwyn was happy, something she had never really experienced in her life until she married Robb. As for the confidence, Arwyn wasn’t sure that was exactly true. She didn’t feel all that different really. 

But she now had someone who would stand beside her against probably anything, and that made her feel bolder. She smiled as she thought about Robb. She hoped he was alright.

“I’ve never seen you smile like that,” Jyanna pulled her into a hug. “I’m happy for you.” She whispered. Arwyn hugged her back and as she did so she saw Catelyn watching her with a thoughtful expression. “You are prettier though, Arwyn.” Jyanna said when she pulled away and gave her a wink. 

Arwyn couldn’t really confirm that one. There were not exactly all that many mirrors at the camp; actually she was pretty sure there weren’t any. She had caught her reflection in the water a few times but it hardly gave a clear picture. Idly her hand moved to her face and then hair, wondering if what her half-sister said was really true.

Then it happened. What both she and Catelyn had been waiting for. Arwyn’s father ordered her to meet with him that night after the wedding part was over. He said he wanted to see her alone. 

But Catelyn had walked with her down the poorly lit hallway to Lord Frey’s chamber. It was the dead of night when everything had ended and she was still expected to see him. Catelyn told her she would be right outside the door with Lady. 

Arwyn nodded and took a breath. This would be the first time talking alone with her father; and she knew she would not enjoy it. She pushed the door open and entered.

“Took you long enough,” her father snapped when he saw her. He was sitting, like always, his gout acting up more than normal that night. A quick sweep of the room with her gaze told her they seemed to be completely alone. “I told you to bring your husband,” he continued “Can you do nothing right?” 

Arwyn didn’t even stiffen at his words. He snorted looking her over; but she saw the same thing she’d seen in Jyanna’s eyes. There was something different about her but Lord Frey seemed to decide it didn’t matter. 

“It would have been much easier if he had been here.” He growled softly, not exactly talking to her. “Tell me, girl,” Arwyn’s expression hadn’t changed since she’d entered. “Can you follow orders?”

“That depends, my Lord.” Arwyn answered. He almost balked at her response but again dismissed it. 

Lord Frey raised his hand and made a gesture to the dark corner of his chambers. She kept herself from gasping, but her eyes still widened and she felt a cold icy grip on her heart. It was Stannis.

“You will go back to Robb Stark,” Lord Frey continued, he was ordering her now; she recognized that tone of voice. Arwyn didn’t miss how he did not add Robb’s title to his name. “And you will give him this,” he tossed a small vial and she caught it with ease. “Put in his drink or what have you,” he continued. 

She had known something was wrong but she hadn’t thought that this could happen. He wanted her to poison her husband. She looked up from the vial to her father to ask ‘why’ but he started talking again. 

“Then, you will be married to King Stannis. His poor wife Selyse died in her sleep.” From the way he said it she knew the woman hadn’t left the world naturally. Lord Frey was making a bid for the Iron Throne; the north just wasn’t good enough for him.

“No.” Arwyn said firmly. She could see he wanted to get up and slap her but his ailment prevented him.

“The Stark boy will never win this war,” Stannis said it as though it were an inevitable fact. Arwyn bristled. “When I am King he will be put down like the dog he is and the north will bow to the Iron Throne.” She felt sick and angry. Her father didn’t try to reason with her as Stannis had.

“You will do as I say, girl.” Lord Frey spat. When she was younger she used to be so frightened of that voice, but now instead of seeing a powerful monster before her she only saw a crippled old man. “You will do what’s best for your family.” 

That word: family. 

It meant something to Arwyn.

“You are not my family.” Arwyn snarled, taking both Stannis and her father aback. “You may be my blood, but you are not my family,” she emphasized each of her words, her voice hard as ice. “Robb is.” 

Lord Frey’s face turned red with anger.

“Well, we can’t have you going back to him now.” Stannis remarked flatly. Otherwise she would warn him. He drew his sword. 

Arwyn took a step back, her eyes wide with fear. Her father looked happy with the turn of events. Seeming to think she would get what she deserved. She unsheathed the short dagger Robb had given her. Stannis smiled at that, seeming to think it was funny.

“Catelyn!” Arwyn yelled right as she ducked Stannis’s first attack. 

The wooden door was slammed open in moments. Lady ran at her attacker, her teeth clamping down on his wrist. He cried out but didn’t let go of his weapon. His free hand went to his knife at his belt. 

At seeing this, Arwyn used her blade to stab his hand. Stannis growled in response and using his wounded hand backhanded her. Arwyn tasted blood. Turning back to him she saw he had thrown the wolf off him. 

And then she was splattered with blood. Out the front of his neck the tip of a sword appeared. The would be King fell to his knees, his mouth pouring the crimson liquid of life. As he choked Catelyn placed her foot on his back and kicked him forward, off of her sword.

Arwyn heard her father call out once for help, but before he could do it again Catelyn had advanced on him and smacked him. He was shocked into silence. Arwyn had a feeling he had never been hit before. 

Looking down to her hand she saw the vial he had given her. Swallowing, she uncorked it and walked towards him, fully intending to force it down his throat. But Catelyn’s hand caught her’s. She looked up at her in question.

“Robb needs someone without bloodied hands,” she said softly, taking the vial from her. “I can’t be that for him,” she looked Arwyn in the eye. “But you can.” She couldn’t fully understand what Catelyn meant exactly, but if Robb needed that of her then she would do it. 

Her father died by the very poison he had wanted to feed Robb. It was rather fitting in Arwyn’s opinion. They needed to leave that very moment though, or else end up caught or tried for murder. Neither of them wanted to stick around to see whether everyone believed their story or not. 

Catelyn said once the war was over it wouldn’t really matter. Arwyn hoped she was right. They sped back to Robb’s camp in record time and for some reason this time around Arwyn wasn’t as tired after riding the horse for a day straight. The first thing she did was go to see Robb.

When she entered their tent though, she felt herself stiffen. Robb was there, he looked fine, but he was talking with a man. She knew she shouldn’t judge by appearances, the burns on the side of his face were truly gruesome. Arwyn waited while he finished up business with the man; he gave her a dark look as he walked past her to exit the tent.

“Who was that?” Arwyn asked, moving to sit by him. She brushed the hair from his forehead and took his hand. They had not been apart for more than five days, but she found she had missed him. So much so that it didn’t bother her that he didn’t really answer her question.

“We won’t be besieging King’s Landing.” Robb told her with a smile and she raised a quizzical eyebrow. “That man,” he gestured with his head to where he had just left from. “He’s going to get us into the city.” Arwyn couldn’t help smiling back, he seemed so excited, part of the reason, she could guess, was because his wound was pretty much healed. “Now we just have Stannis–”

“Stannis is dead.” Arwyn broke in, when he said nothing she continued. “At the wedding my father, he,” she paused. “He had made a deal with Stannis, your mother and I, well…your mother killed them.” She finished. “So it’s not a problem anymore.” 

Arwyn gave a small smile hoping that his blank expression didn’t mean something bad. It didn’t.

Robb’s hand grasped her by the back of her head and pulled her into a bruising kiss. 

And then he whispered the three words she’d wanted to hear for the longest time.

“I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	21. Sansa

Sansa’s crying had almost stopped completely. She still missed her family terribly, but she was no longer all alone. Tyrion had become a good friend after many weeks; she sought out his company at first but it wasn’t long before he was the one seeking out her as well. It was nice to have someone she could talk to. 

She wasn’t sure she could fully trust him, for she knew he must have some sense of loyalty to his family, although she realized after a while that the connection between him and his family was rather strained. Every now and then he had information regarding her brother and mother. She wasn’t sure how he was getting it until he had told her he had been keeping in touch with her mother. There hadn’t been much for him to report however. 

Robb had been sweeping south until his army had been pushed back by Tywin Lannister himself. Sansa kept telling herself it was silly to worry, for Robb would never lose not even to the renowned Tywin. 

Tyrion had also told her about his marriage to Arwyn Frey, something Sansa had not exactly felt happy about. Knowing it was a political marriage, Sansa figured it was rather cold and loveless, even though Tyrion reported that she had stayed with Robb instead of going back to Winterfell, which is where Robb would have sent her.

The barrier chain had been taken down by Stannis, just as Tyrion had said it would. An attack by sea was inevitable and fast approaching. Sansa had asked Tyrion what he was planning on doing. He’d told her about the newly developed substance originally made for navy battles, a mixture of naphtha and resin; he said it could burn on water. 

Now it would be put to the test, and as much as Sansa could see Tyrion was wary of the coming attack she could also tell he was a little bit excited too. Probably about seeing this chemical mix in action. In all truth, Sansa did as well. The thought of water being set aflame captivated her. Neither of them had to wait long before Stannis and his ships arrived.

Preparations had been made and the men were preparing for battle. The women were all gathered together in the throne room during the battle. Joffrey actually gave her a kiss on the cheek, telling her he’d be back for her; it was hard to suppress her grimace. She’d given a nod to the Hound in silent hope that he would return safely. Then there was Tyrion.

“Don’t die,” Sansa said, but her voice wasn’t as steady as she had wanted it to be. But if he were to die she would once again be all alone. Besides, she liked him.

“I’ll try,” he gave her a smile and a wink trying to lighten the mood. But the atmosphere was heavy and nothing could change that. She bit her lip and nodded. Tyrion reached out and took her hand. “I can’t make a promise I don’t know I can keep.” 

Again she nodded, understanding and appreciating his honesty but also wanted to be told everything was alright. That’s what Jon would have told her; that everything would be alright. 

“But look at it this way, my Lady, I’m so short their sword swing won’t even reach me.” It was a bad joke and they both knew it, but she smiled anyway.

They all knew when the battle started, they could hear it even from the castle. Sansa wished she were in her room, for she could see hardly anything from where she was. but she could see the light that was coming in through the windows, the light from the fire, for there was no natural light left at such an hour. 

To Sansa’s annoyance, Cersei had apparently decided that if the city’s walls were breached the guardsmen, whom they all thought were protecting them, would kill all the women and nobles before Stannis could capture them. It was utterly ridiculous and Sansa couldn’t help rolling her eyes when Cersei announced her plan. They soon knew something had gone wrong. 

Whether Stannis had entered the city was uncertain but they could hear shouts from the streets. The women went mad when this happened, completely due to the fact they thought Cersei was going to have them all killed. It was chaos.

“Stop!” Sansa yelled out, her voice echoing through the hall. Everything stopped. She moved to stand on the dais in front of the iron throne so they could all see her. “We are not going to die.” She said each word with finality. “Each of you will go back to your chambers and barricade your doors. If Stannis has breached the city he will not kill us. We are worth more alive as hostages than dead.” 

Which was true. Yes, all the nobles there, excluding her, were those from the Houses of those supporting the Lannisters, but Stannis would use them as a means to try to sway those Houses to his side, or rather threaten them to it. There would be no point in killing any of them. Except for Cersei. 

“You are not in charg-- ” Cersei started, her voice shrill and angry.

“Shut up!” Sansa snapped. And then promptly ignored her as though she hadn’t spoken. “You,” she pointed to the guards. “Make sure the castle is secure.” 

For a minute she thought they might not obey her, and they certainly seemed to be thinking about whether they should. 

“Now.” She said coldly; and they did. 

The women and nobles filed out of the throne room quietly. Cersei looked like she was going to murder someone, and perhaps she was. But at the moment Sansa didn’t even know if Cersei had any power anymore.

She hurried back to her own room, sighing as she closed the door behind her. Sansa tensed when she realized she wasn’t alone. Her hand moved to her small thin knife, but his voice stopped her.

“It’s just me, girl.” The Hound. So he had survived. But immediately Sansa wondered what he was doing there when he was supposed to be on the battlefield.

“What’s happened?” She asked urgently. He seemed rather calm about everything though, which was unnerving. If he was there then something was wrong, but not wrong enough for him to be worried. “Is Stannis in the city?”

“No,” he shook his head. “But the fire, our own fire, is burning our city.” Sansa’s eyes widened and she dashed to her window. 

What greeted her was astonishing. The sea was on fire, and then she saw that the city below was dotted with flames as well. It hadn’t reached the castle, and in all likelihood wouldn’t, but a good quarter of the city would be demolished overnight.

“Is the battle over then?” She asked, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight. A gruff ‘no’ was her answer. “Then, what are you doing here?” 

Turning to look at him his scars registered anew. They were burns, it would only be natural for him to fear fire. It was the best answer that she could muster if he wouldn’t tell her.

“I’m leaving King’s Landing.” The Hound told her, then his eyes met hers. “I’ll take you back to Winterfell.” Sansa’s breath almost caught at the prospect of going home. “I’ll make sure no one hurts you.” 

The way he said it was so sweet, kind and sincere that to Sansa she almost felt as though he were begging her. 

Sansa realized that if she left she would not be able to kill Joffrey. She would have to leave that in Robb’s hands; the death of Cersei and Baelish as well. There was also Tyrion. But she wanted to go home or to Robb and her mother to help. She could do some good being on the inside as she was currently, but being a hostage limited her movement. 

“Take me to Robb.” Sansa had decided to go with him. She saw the happiness in his eyes that seemed to overtake the darkness that usually lived there. 

He told her to take as little as possible; then he led her down the dark halls. Leaving the castle seemed perilous, as people looked to be fleeing from the area of the city that was burning and the air was filled with screams and shouts. 

Sansa pulled her hood up and quickly followed the Hound. People seemed mostly to ignore them, which was good, and when they reached the city gate it was quickly opened when the Hound barked his command. They were too afraid to go against his orders, and they didn’t recognize her under her cloak. His horse was still near the battle, saddled and ready to go.

Sansa could hardly see a thing, for the air was filled with ash from the burned and still burning ships. Stannis’ men had made their way to land to fight, but they had been prepared for what had happened. 

The battle looked like it was over to her though. Men were walking or stumbling towards the gate. Just as the Hound was about to help her up into the saddle Sansa saw someone she knew walking towards them. It was Bronn. He had been with Tyrion when they had left; he was always with Tyrion. But right then he wasn’t.

“Bronn!” She called out and only then did he seem to notice her. “Where’s Tyrion?” He was covered in soot but she could see and smell the blood on him. “Is he alive?” 

Sansa would never call herself hysterical, but at the moment she was probably the closest she’d ever be to being it right then. 

“I don’t –” He looked back in the direction he had come, the direction she assumed Tyrion must be in. She didn’t wait for him to finish and she didn’t put much thought into what she knew she had to do. The Hound grabbed her by the arm.

“We have to leave now!” He hissed; she knew he was right. She bit her lip.

“Then leave without me,” Sansa told him. His eyes widened as he realized how serious she was about it. “Go to Robb, tell him,” she paused thinking, “tell him I’m alright, tell him what’s happened.” She implored. 

His nostrils flared and his grip tightened on her, but then he gave a short nod and released her.

“I’ll tell him something.” His voice was thick and his words were vague. But he had let her go. 

She didn’t wait any longer. A whispered ‘thank you’ was all she left behind before running and then disappearing into the ash. 

All around her were the dead and dying; the few still living were heading back to the city as fast as possible. Sansa had a hard time seeing but she knew he wouldn’t be hard to recognize. The ash made her cough as she breathed and she had to squint to keep her eyes from being clouded. Then she saw him. 

Running towards him she fell to the ground next to him. Her hands were shaking as she reached out to touch him. He was unconscious and covered in soot and blood, but that wasn’t the worst. 

His nose had been cut from his face, he had been stabbed through the shoulder and a long bleeding gash ran across the side of his face. Tears filled her eyes but she pushed them back, she had to be strong. 

Sansa was not that generally physically strong of a person, stronger than would be expected perhaps, but she had difficulty in lifting Tyrion and even more in carrying him across the field to the city gates. She just hoped she hadn’t been too late.

* * *

Joffrey had survived the battle, unfortunately. Sansa had wanted to stay with Tyrion as much as she could, but Joffrey took up the majority of her time. Cersei was far more malevolent towards her but as of yet had not done anything. 

Despite these constraints on her time however, she was there when he awoke. He was very disoriented and in a lot of pain, but he tried to sit up and immediately hissed in pain.

“Don’t try to move too much,” Sansa said, her hands lightly pushing on his shoulders so he would lie back down. “You were badly injured.” 

His hand moved to the bandage over his face, over his nose, and she could see the horror in his face as he must have remembered what had happened, the horror at realizing that he was now even more disfigured and ugly than before. 

The anguish was unrelentingly visible and she knew he was no longer just in physical pain. Sansa took his hand from his face and held it tightly and when his gaze met hers she prayed he did not see disgust or pity in her eyes. 

She felt his pain and felt so sorry about what had happened to him. It wasn’t the same as pity though; she thought no less of him then than she had before. But she knew what she felt could easily be misinterpreted. 

“It’s going to be okay,” she said when she saw tears forming in his eyes. They weren’t from what he had seen in her face, they were from everything that he had lost. She held his hand in both of hers. “You’ll be okay.”

In many ways he was. His injuries healed relatively quickly. The scars on his body faded but the scars on his heart and soul never fully would. Tyrion had tried to not let his experience affect him, but whether he wanted it to or not it did. Most couldn’t seem to tell, but to Sansa it was painfully obvious. 

They still talked but he was more withdrawn than before. It made Sansa’s chest ache. 

Cersei had finally decided to pay Sansa back for the night of the attack; at least that was the only reason Sansa could think of for why she would be doing it. She had broken off her and Joffrey’s engagement. 

Sansa was both shocked and angry at the news. Now she would have to find some other way of killing him. Joffrey of course was not pleased, but he could do nothing about it. 

Cersei had smiled wickedly then, and said Sansa would still need to be married. When she named  _ him _ Sansa wasn’t sure what to think. It would be advantageous for the Lannisters, and that was all that mattered; that and Sansa could tell Cersei thought it to be the worst punishment possible to have to be married to such a man as Tyrion Lannister. Sansa didn’t know what to think or feel, but Tyrion certainly did. He was angry.

“She’s doing this to hurt me,” he growled. Sansa was taken aback by his words. 

She couldn’t see how him marrying her was such a horrible thing. Evidently he had seen her expression, because he sighed and continued. 

“She knows I’ll feel guilty every time I look at you.” All Sansa could do was stare. He looked so frustrated as he tried to explain to her what he meant. “I wanted to help you Sansa, not tether you to me for the rest of your life.” 

Tyrion already looked guilty and Sansa could understand how Cersei’s reasoning had been solid. The Queen not only tied the ‘Princess of the North’ to a Lannister but she got to hurt Tyrion, and presumably Sansa, as well.

“It’s not so bad,” Sansa started. “You shouldn’t feel guilty over this.” 

He shot her a deadpan look, one filled with skepticism. She knew when he opened his mouth he was going to say something about how she couldn’t possibly be okay with marrying him. 

“I won’t lie,” she continued quickly before he could speak. “I don’t find you… attractive.” 

Sansa wondered whether that was true. His physical appearance was no one to make her swoon but also not so bad that she’d flinch every time she saw him. A part of her did find his other qualities attractive though, his witty and intelligent speech and his analytical mind. That she liked him very much. 

“But, I think, if you want, we could have a real marriage.” She spoke rather quickly, some of her words slurring together. Tyrion looked speechless. “I could learn to love you,” Sansa said when he didn’t reply. “And maybe you could learn to love me as well.”

“Sansa,” Tyrion was smiling, but it was filled with sadness and guilt. “Any man could fall in love with you,” she wondered if he thought that she had somehow felt as though he were rejecting her, as if there was something wrong with her, and that had made her say what she had. “Anyone would feel lucky just to have you say you’d even try to love them back.” 

“Then feel lucky,” Sansa told him almost sternly. “Not guilty.”

* * *

Joffrey was far from pleased with the news that Sansa would no longer be his bride. No, his feelings on the matter were incredibly strong. In all honesty, it scared Sansa. She hadn’t been there when Cersei had broken the news to him, but she was called for by him as she expected. 

However, she was rather surprised to find he sent for her two days after he heard the news. Sansa had thought he would want to see her immediately. Instead she hadn’t seen him for a full forty-eight hours. It made her dread the meeting all the more.

One of his knights had banged on her door and led her to him. He was not in the throne room as he normally was. Rather, he was in his chambers, and that was where she was taken. Sansa glanced around the room and was surprised to see that Ser Meryn and any of his other guardsmen were absent. 

Joffrey dismissed the knight that had fetched her with a wave of his hand. His back was to her so she could not see his expression. She didn’t know why they were alone. If he wanted to beat her one of his men would be present, for Joffrey had never really hit her, except once, or injured her himself. 

Although now that she thought about it, he had claimed it was because his mother had told him men to not hit their wives, and she was no longer to be his wife, so perhaps he no longer needed someone else to do it for him. Part of her didn’t mind that, as Joffrey could not possibly hit harder than his men.

His long silence was beginning to worry her. He had never been so quiet around her before. Normally he would start talking and then never stop. Sansa took a step towards him. She wanted this to be over; whatever ‘this’ was. 

“Joffrey?” She called softly. He made no indication that he heard her, but he did answer.

“I hear you’re to be married to my uncle,” his voice sounded strained yet hard and cold. 

Sansa wasn’t sure whether she should say anything to that; it hadn’t been a question after all. So she said nothing. He turned to her sharply, his eyes were narrowed accusatory. 

“You’re not going to deny it?” Joffrey growled his expression darkening. 

Sansa was speechless. Of course she wouldn’t deny it, it was true. But it was arranged, it wasn’t as though she had chosen Tyrion over him; although she would in a heartbeat if she had the choice earlier. That was the way he made it sound though, as though it was her choice. 

A memory flashed through her mind. In the throne room, quite a while ago, when Joffrey had told her how his mother had abandoned him to be a ruler, and how he had so happily and possessively told her she would never leave him. 

“Do you love him?”

“What?” Sansa blinked. His question caught her off guard. 

Joffrey stomped towards her and roughly grasped the back of her neck with his hand. She could have stopped him, she could stop him still, but she let him. Despite what Tyrion said she knew he could and perhaps would kill her if he wanted.

“Do you love him?” He asked again in a snarl, and glaring into her eyes. “More than me?” 

‘Yes’ would have been her answer, because she didn’t love Joffrey at all and never had; Tyrion was at least her friend. Sansa opened her mouth to speak, for she knew what he wanted to hear, or at least she thought she did. But the words wouldn’t come. She had never told him she had loved him, and even though that was what he wanted her to say, she couldn’t. 

“Are you trying to hurt me?” He hissed.

Joffrey released her, shoving her back. She stumbled back against the vanity. Sansa’s eyes widened and snapped back up to Joffrey when she heard the tearing of cloth. His shirt was open and then he advanced on her. She was aware than ever that they were not just in his chamber, but his bed chamber. 

Cold fear ran through her as he stopped directly in front of her; there was barely an inch between them. His hand reached out behind her towards the vanity and her eyes followed and then widened further when she saw he was now holding a pair of scissors. 

There was a small thrill of hope that went through her that he might hurt her instead of touching her. The minute she thought it she felt sick. Then, Joffrey grasped her face between his hands; she could feel the cold steel of the scissors against her cheek.

“Don’t you know how much I love you?” Sansa tasted bile at his words. He looked so sincere, so hurt, sad but also angry. 

She had heard him say it several times in the past and every time she heard it she felt disgust. But most of all she felt complete and utter confusion, for he believed the words he said. 

“This,” he suddenly said, and he released her, shoving her head back against the place where the mirror should have been, only to grab her by the wrist. Joffrey thrust the scissors into her hand and forced her to hold it; his own hand keeping her hand tightly around it. “This is what you are doing to me.” He forced her to press the tip against his bare chest, just over where his heart would be.

Sansa took in the sight with horror. If he killed himself she would be blamed and Cersei would have her killed; Tyrion would not be able to save her. She was probably stronger than Joffrey, and she knew she should pull away, but she was frozen in place. 

He forced the point harder against him and the skin broke. She could see he was in pain, but with abject horror she realized she saw pleasure in his eyes as well. Some dark twisted part of him was enjoying this.

“You’re cutting my heart out,” Joffrey told her, his voice filled with emotions. With a surge of disgust, confusion and fear, Sansa ripped her hand out of his pulling the scissors away from his now bleeding chest. His expression didn’t change. 

“Sansa,” the way he said her name, with love, made her stomach turn. She pushed him away from her and, dropping the scissors fled from him.

Sansa didn’t know where she was going as she tore through the castle hallways; all she knew was that she had to get away. Joffrey was more than mad. She wasn’t sure where she was but she collapsed against the stone wall, using it to support herself. 

Gasping for breath she placed a hand over her heart to try to calm herself. Then she realized where she was. She thought she would have run back to her chambers but instead she found herself in the tower of the Hand. 

Tyrion’s office was just around the corner. Letting go of the wall she walked towards it and finding the door open she glanced in to see Tyrin sitting behind his desk as per usual. It was just like the first day she had gone to see him. She knocked lightly on the open door and he looked up.

“Sansa,” he smiled. It fell somewhat when he saw her face. “What’s wrong?” So many things were wrong but Sansa hadn’t come to talk about it. She didn’t even want to think about it, so she shook her head and sank down onto the couch just to the left of his desk.

“Nothing,” she breathed, closing her eyes and trying to banish the memories of the past few minutes. 

Tyrion slid from his chair and clambered up next to her. He took her hand, concerned and she gave him a short smile. She was glad he was there.

* * *

Sansa had never given much thought to her wedding. As a child she had more important things to do than daydream about handsome grooms and sunset beach weddings. So the fact that her wedding to Tyrion was more like a business transaction rather than a union between two people, as it was supposed to be, didn't bother her all that much. 

The cloak of her family had been removed and replaced by the Lannister lion. Part of her hated the meaning behind the act, but Sansa knew that no matter what she wore or who she was married to she would always be a Stark; and because of that she was able to keep a smile on her face even when she knelt so that Tyrion could place the red and gold cloak around her shoulders. The only thing about the ceremony that saddened and maybe made her even a little bit angry, was how apologetic and miserable Tyrion looked. 

Cersei looked pleased while most everyone else was somewhat confused. It was odd to think the dwarf would be unhappy being married to a beautiful young girl. But to have the roles reversed, with a content or at least willing beauty and a reluctant beast was strange to most. 

Sansa knew why he was so unhappy but couldn't help but be irritated that he wouldn't just be happy like she told him to. She had told him she was fine with the marriage; that she understood the reasons behind it and knew it would be the best under the circumstances. 

If she had to be married to a Lannister she was glad it was him. God forbid Tywin decide to march back to King's Landing and take her as his bride, or for Jamie to return and be married off to him. It was true that Jamie was handsome but Sansa couldn't help feeling uneasy in his presence back at Winterfell and the journey to King's Landing. 

She knew Tyrion, and while she didn't love him she was willing to marry him, although Sansa didn't even think she really knew what love was at least in a romantic context, for she knew very well the love between family.

The wedding was not what would be called a happy affair, although Sansa tried to enjoy it a little. Sansa had once asked her mother about her wedding and Catelyn had answered rather thoughtfully that she didn’t remember much about the wedding itself. It was what came after that mattered. 

Sansa wasn’t sure whether she meant the bedding or their lives together afterwards; she suspected the latter. She knew her mother’s marriage had also been arranged, but she also knew just how much her mother had loved her husband. Glancing at Tyrion, Sansa wondered whether the same could happen for her.

Despite the cloud that hung over the wedding it passed rather quickly and soon Sansa found herself in their new chambers. Well, they were Tyrion’s chambers; they were only new for her. 

Her handmaidens had undressed her and she sat on the edge of the bed in nothing but her white slip. She was nervous now. The wedding hadn’t bothered her at all but for some reason this did. The door opened, pulling her from her thoughts. Tyrion looked at her and then quickly away. Sansa felt her heart sink just a little.

“I won’t touch you.” She heard him say and she couldn’t help blinking in confusion. Sansa wondered whether he had seen her nervousness and had made his decision because of it.

“Tyrion,” Sansa protested getting up from the bed and taking a step towards him. She wished he would look at her.

“No, Sansa,” Tyrion stopped her with a raised hand. “I appreciate you trying to make the best of a bad situation,” she frowned at his use of words for describing their marriage. “But, this was forced on you and I’m not going to take advantage of that.”

“Take advantage?” she repeated crossing her arms, and coldness seeping into her voice. Tyrion looked up at her and then away again before she could really read anything in his eyes.

“I’m not going to take your…” he paused, but she knew what he meant. He wouldn’t take her maidenhead. He sighed. “Someday you’ll fall in love and want to marry–”

“I  _ am  _ married.” Sansa pointed out, her voice and eyes hard.

“Yes,” he conceded, “but, once your brother wins the war our marriage can be annulled.” Sansa scoffed. It sounded as though he’d given it a great deal of thought.

“You think Cersei will leave me married to you if you won’t consummate?” She said, keeping the growl in her throat out of her voice.

“She’ll leave us married,” Tyrion replied. “After all, she’s doing this to hurt me.” His words were bitter and Sansa bristled at hearing them. She had thought they had gotten past this. He seemed to know she was about to protest since he continued. “You may not think you want out of this marriage now, but you’re young, Sansa and–”

“And what?” She asked, angry now. “I don’t know what I want or what I’m doing?” Tyrion finally looked at her and his expression released some of the anger she felt.

“No,” Tyrion assured her. “I have no doubt you know exactly what you’re doing and know exactly what you want.” He gave her a small smirk, “You’re Catelyn Stark’s daughter.” 

Sansa couldn’t help smiling at his words. It wasn’t the first time he had mentioned her mother; she knew he respected and thought very highly of her mother. Sansa wondered whether that had anything to do with what he was doing now. 

“But, you are young and I am old.” He said. Sansa couldn’t help laughing a little. 

He wasn’t all that old. Tyrion frowned in response. Sansa walked to him and sank to stand on her knees so that she was at his eye level; only a half inch shorter than him.

“My mother’s marriage was arranged, you know,” Sansa said searching his eyes. “She didn’t marry my father because she was in love with him.” 

Tyrion knew that, of course, and she could see the weariness in his eyes, for he thought he knew where she was going with this. But as she looked at him she finally found what she was hoping to find: desire. 

Sansa did not have faith that Cersei would leave them married if they refused to truly be husband and wife, which was a piece of why she wanted this marriage to actually work out. But there was something else too that Sansa couldn’t quite explain. 

She leaned forward and kissed him. It was her first kiss, and she had no idea what she was doing. Tyrion’s hands gripped her shoulders and she thought for a moment that he would pull her closer; and for about a millisecond he did. Then he pushed her away.

“Sansa,” he started but he seemed to have trouble remembering what he wanted to say. Sansa didn’t give him the chance to think about it any deeper.

“If I have to be married to someone,” she said seriously, “I’m glad it’s you.” Sansa hoped he could hear the sincerity in her words and voice. 

But he gave something between a scoff and a laugh. She knew his next words: ‘who would be glad to marry a dwarf?’ 

“I’m serious,” she continued, not giving him the time to speak. “And I was serious when I said I could come to love you, and that I’m sure you could…” her voice faltered on the last part, and she wasn’t entirely sure why. Sansa wanted to continue but she was silent long enough for him to finally get a word in.

“I already love you, Sansa Stark.” 

Her heart skipped a beat. She loved that he had called her a Stark. And then he kissed her. Sansa decided that night that her mother must have also been talking about the bedding when she spoke of what mattered in a marriage. Lying with him that night Sansa decided that Tyrion could become part of her family. 

And just as she was drifting off to sleep, she idly wondered whether Tyrion would mind becoming a Stark. The Lannister name was not exactly all that well liked after all. Sansa decided that really Tyrion was a Stark in many ways and certainly now through marriage. 

He was part of her family now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!


	22. Tyrion

Tyrion was first to wake the morning after. Looking over at Sansa, who was sleeping rather peacefully, made him smile. Then he felt guilty. She looked just like her mother, and Tyrion knew the Lady Stark, when she said she would entrust her daughter’s safety to him did not mean she wanted him to marry her. He sighed and threw an arm over his eyes as he lay back and thought. 

Tyrion knew he had to write to Lady Stark, and tell her what had happened. He had to because she would inevitably hear about it and he would rather him be the one to tell her than some gloating soldier, his father, or gods forbid from a letter by Cersei. 

His sister was just the kind of person to do such a thing out of spite. He had no idea what to say in his letter to Catelyn Stark, but he knew he had to write one. Tyrion wasn’t sure whether he ought to be apologetic about it, blame his sister for the whole thing, or defend it by telling her the whole truth. That he loved her daughter.

When he had first arrived back at King’s Landing Tyrion had thought what drew him towards the eldest Stark girl was his need to act as her shield, as he had promised, or perhaps been ordered to be by Lady Stark. 

In any case, he had thought it was only because of his promise. But a little later on, he found himself more than just drawn to Sansa Stark. He had told himself it was because she was Catelyn’s daughter and because she resembled her mother so greatly; and he respected Lady Stark so it was only natural for some of those feelings to transfer to Sansa. 

Then he felt something else. After spending so much time with her he felt something towards her he couldn’t quite name, until he could. He was attracted to her. Immediately he felt guilty, firstly because of their age difference and secondly because he thought perhaps those feelings were also a projection of what he felt for the girl’s mother. 

That had given Tyrion pause. 

Was he attracted to Catelyn Stark? Certainly he felt something more than just respect, but the more he thought about it the more he decided it was a feeling far from attraction.

Lady Stark commanded a presence that suggested she knew what she was doing, and that she had the answer to everything. She was always calm, poised and firm in her decisions and beliefs. 

The words she lived by were also something to be envied, mostly because to her they were not just words as they were to most others. Tyrion had realized that what he felt beyond respect for the woman was a desire to be validated. 

It was a similar feeling he’d had towards his father growing up, a burning aspiration to be like them and be noticed by them. But unlike his father, Lady Stark seemed reachable, while his father was firmly sealed.

The more he had thought about it the more he also knew that Sansa, while similar to her mother, was very different. The stern, determined, and sometimes dark expressions that were a common countenance for Lady Stark had never been seen on Sansa’s face, at least not by Tyrion. 

Sansa’s smile was warmer and her eyes bright instead of an icy cool. The way they talked was also different. Tyrion’s interactions with Lady Stark were always regarding military or political subjects; her writing was to the point and completely absent of any kind of pleasantries. 

With Sansa though it was different; they talked about history and the book they’d read. Conversations with Sansa were far more relaxed and Tyrion never felt he could disappoint the young girl as he always felt in the presence of Lady Stark.

Sansa was more willing to speak about herself. Of course it had taken quite a while before Sansa actually trusted him enough to speak about personal matters. Tyrion had asked Lady Stark about her childhood and about her experience raising her children, but she only gave short replies that hinted at the fact she did not have any interest in discussing such topics. 

Sansa told him about her childhood and the things she liked without even having to be asked. She certainly seemed to feel the same way towards her mother as Tyrion did. There was one point where she stopped when talking about her mother and she looked unsure as to whether she wanted to continue with whatever thread of thought she had. She’d changed the subject after that. 

Sansa loved talking about her siblings though, and he could see how homesick she was. She told him about Rickon trying to be an adult at such a young age, about Arya’s brashness, Bran’s cleverness, Robb’s skill with a blade, and about Jon.

Jon seemed very important to her. There was a softness about her expression and voice when she spoke of him that was absent when she spoke of her other siblings. Not that her other siblings were less important to her, but she certainly shared a deeper bond with her dark haired older brother. 

There was a growing feeling inside him when she spoke about him. It didn’t take long for him to realize he was jealous of their relationship. In all honesty he envied her relationship with all of her siblings. The only member of his family that Tyrion could say he had a real relationship with was Jamie, and even then he’d discovered his brother was not the kind of man he had thought he was.

There was a rustling in the bed next to him that drew him from his thoughts. He removed his arm from his eyes and was momentarily blinded by the light before he turned his head to look at Sansa. She was smiling shyly. He gave a small smile back. Tyrion hadn’t planned on what had happened the night before; he knew it had been her first time, something he had no experience with.

“Did I hurt you?” He asked. She blinked and then laughed, and Tyrion realized his question was probably rather silly to her. After all she’d been beaten by Joffrey too many times to count. Her words surprised him though.

“That was nothing compared to Robb,” Tyrion just stared at her, not sure of what to make of her words. She could see his confusion so she elaborated. “He hits harder than Ser Myrn in a fight.” Her words were still hard to comprehend.

“Your older brother has hit you?” Tyrion asked knowing his shock and perhaps some repulsion was evident in his voice. 

He knew she learned to fight with her brothers, but even with sparring Tyrion had never seen anyone get seriously hurt the way Sansa did after seeing Joffrey. Sansa frowned at his words.

“I’ve told you he taught me how to use a sword, and hand to hand,” Sansa said coolly. 

He could tell she thought he didn’t understand, and maybe he didn’t, but it was still a shock for him. Family came first in the Stark household yet they went full force on one another on the training ground? To Tyrion that didn’t fit. 

Sansa must have guessed his thoughts, which wouldn’t be that hard to do considering she had seen how the soldiers practiced in the yard. 

“If he went easy on me I’d never learn anything. A few cuts and bruises are nothing compared with the real world.” She said. He could tell she wasn’t happy with him, or rather at his reaction.

“Sansa,” Tyrion began, and then sighed when he saw her expression. “Okay.” 

It was clearly important to her that he understand and maybe if he thought about it more he could. Lady Stark would never let her children get seriously hurt and he supposed some lessons couldn’t be learned unless they were harsh.

He didn’t think she was all that mad at him; she hadn’t seemed to be, although she did say something rather enigmatic that morning at breakfast.

“There’s something I need to do,” Tyrion had no idea what that meant and she wouldn’t say anything else about it. 

She must still have been upset at him though, because she stopped spending as much time with him as before. Court seemed to be her preferred venue, and he saw her speaking with Baelish more often. 

He tried to let it go; telling himself that it probably didn’t mean anything. But he also knew she didn’t love him, she had basically told him that point blank. She had said she would try, but what if she had and decided she couldn’t? 

If that was the case Tyrion was certainly receiving mixed signals, because she did still seem to enjoy his company and she was always the one who would kiss him and lead him to bed at night.

“Sansa,” he asked her one night at dinner. She looked up at him, smiling. It faltered though when she saw how serious and perhaps miserable he looked. “Are you unhappy with this marriage?” 

She blanched, a reaction he hadn’t expected and wasn’t sure what it meant.

“No, Tyrion, I –” she stopped and bit her lip, then reached out, took his hand and smiled again. “I’m very happy with you.” 

Tyrion gave a weak smile back. She said she was happy and acted like she was happy, yet spent more time at court and with Baelish than she did with him. He didn’t press the matter though. Part of him asked him why he was surprised, he was a dwarf after all, he ought to be used to this.

Corresponding with Lady Stark was a tricky task. Tyrion didn’t trust a raven to take his letters, for they could be easily intercepted. Instead he had to send a runner who would meet with one of Lady Stark’s men to hand over the letter. 

A man at least could fight, a bird could not. This meant though, that the correspondence was much slower than otherwise. Tyrion had written to Lady Stark about what had happened. He had begun the letter explaining how he had dissolved the arrangement between her daughter and Joffrey, and that Joffrey would be marrying Margaery Tyrell instead. 

Then he reminded the Lady Stark of Cersei’s hate for him and of her deciding that Sansa and he should be wed. Tyrion wasn’t sure how much detail he ought to put in. He wasn’t sure whether her first letter back to him would ask whether he’d touched her precious daughter. So he wondered whether he should explain Sansa had been very accepting of their marriage and apparently didn’t want it annulled once the war ended. In the end he left that part out. 

Despite Sansa having said she didn’t want to annul their marriage, she was still absent from his side. And now she truly was absent, at least before he could usually find her at court, now he had no idea where she was. Tyrion wouldn’t call himself possessive, but he wanted to know what was going on. 

If she didn’t want to be with him that was fine, he’d understand, but he wished she would just tell him. But clearly she wouldn’t. So one day he followed her. He had chosen that day because there was some kind of determination in her eyes, as though that day something was going to happen. And something did happen.

She turned out to be much harder to follow than he had thought, and not just because she could walk faster than he could. Sansa seemed to almost sense someone was behind her and he was almost caught. 

Except that she wasn’t looking for him, that is to say she was looking for someone far taller than he was. So he had enough time to hide when she had turned around to try to catch him. 

Tyrion followed her all through the castle; clearly she was doubling back because of the feeling of being followed. At last though, she seemed to decide that her uneasy feeling was not due to having a shadow. Either that or she had to be where she was going by a certain time. 

Sansa had been going to the godswood; that made Tyrion raise an eyebrow, as it was a place of prayer, not a suspicious or strange place for her to be. But then he realized she hadn’t come there to pray. She was there to meet someone. 

Tyrion knew Sansa wasn’t specifically religious but still. Really, it was who she was meeting that made bile rise in his throat. Baelish.

Tyrion’s nails dug painfully into the wood of the tree he was hiding behind. His grip tightened further as he watched her approach him, and as she let him touch her. Baelish’s snake-like arm slipped about her waist. There was a slight stiffness to his wife, and Tyrion hoped that meant she wasn’t as comfortable as her expression said she was.

“I’ve been waiting,” he heard Baelish say breathily and he couldn’t contain his cringe. Sansa just smiled, almost coyly in reply.

“I needed to make sure I wasn’t followed,” for a moment Tyrion wondered if that could really be Sansa. The way her voice sounded was all wrong. He’d never heard her sound like that; Tyrion hoped he never would again after today. “So we won’t be interrupted.” Sansa looked up at Baelish and then almost as an afterthought: “you weren’t followed, were you?”

“I’ve been waiting so long to be with you, Sansa,” Baelish waved her question off. “I promise you none of my men are watching from the bushes.” Tyrion could see Sansa smile at that, this time though there was some kind of spark in her eyes. 

“Good,” the fact that it sounded almost like a purr made Tyrion’s stomach turn. Her hand started to move south and Tyrion wasn’t sure he could watch anymore. 

Just as he turned away though, he heard the sound of steel against its sheath. He whirled around just in time to see Sansa draw Baelish’s short sword, flip it and then jab it upward into the fleshy underside of his jaw. The blade had pierced his tongue and had finally lodged itself in his brain. 

“You never should have betrayed my father,” Sansa growled her eyes were steel and her face filled with hatred and darkness. “You filthy piece of–” 

Tyrion couldn't help gasping and taking a step back, this was another side of his wife he’d never seen before. But she must have heard him since her words broke off and her gaze flew to where he was.

Sansa’s expression melted into one of shock and then horror. She dropped her grip on the blade, although it stayed lodged in her victim. Stepping backwards she distanced herself from the body as it fell, crumpling on the ground like a rag doll. 

“Tyrion,” he’d never heard her voice shake like that. “I –I…” she didn’t seem to know what to say. He honestly wasn’t sure that he did either. But it was especially in those kinds of situations that he seemed to open his mouth.

“Well,” he was surprised at the normalcy of his tone. “I guess you’re not cheating on me.” In all honesty that was a relief. He’d rather her be a murderer or even a serial killer than intentionally hurt him in such a way. 

Sansa’s knees buckled and he could see her eyes were wet. He probably shouldn’t have felt what he did at that moment, but the fact that she was so disturbed by having him see what she had done probably meant she cared about him very deeply, or at least his opinion of her; it made him happy. Tyrion was also surprised by how calmly he thought about the situation.

“Tyrion,” Sansa said again, but didn’t progress any further. He walked towards her, his eyes taking in her appearance. Yes, he knew what he had to do, even if Sansa wouldn’t like it. 

Reaching out he tore the front of her dress. Sansa was too much in shock to stop him or protest. Tyrion really did not like that kind of expression on her; it didn’t fit. Then he went over to Baelish’s fallen body and with a bit of effort pulled the blade from the body. All the while Sansa just sat there.

“Bronn!” Tyrion called out loudly, “guards!” For such a small stature he certainly had a strident voice. Looking back at Sansa he saw her face go pale. 

They came running and stopped, clearly not prepared for the sight that greeted them; except for Bronn, nothing seemed to faze him. Before any of them had time to draw their own conclusions Tyrion spoke. 

“Lord Baelish, here,” he said the name with disgust, “attacked my wife while she was praying.” He didn’t need to say anything more, it was clear he was saying he had killed Baelish. 

The guards nodded and went to get the body. Tyrion went back over by Sansa, and wished he was taller so that he could be the one to help her to her feet instead of Bronn. Once she was back at their chamber, Tyrion walked Bronn to the door.

“So did you grow a couple feet or jump to stab him like that?” Bronn asked, a wide grin spreading across his face. 

Tyrion thought it wouldn’t be questioned considering stabbing up like that was something Tyrion could do. But Baelish was a very tall man, and Tyrion realized he would have had to jump to get the blade to go that far up. Tyrion couldn’t help chuckling as he pictured it.

“Sometimes you are far too smart for your own good.” Bronn just laughed and then left. He was under Tyrion’s employment and was perhaps even his friend; so for now Tyrion could trust him. 

When he turned back around Sansa was no longer sitting in the chair they had placed her in. He found her in the bathroom slumped against the wall. Standing in front of her he was a good deal taller. She no longer looked to be in shock, but her eyes still had a far away look. 

“Sansa?” He tried.

“He betrayed my father,” she said and Tyrion nodded, he had heard her say that back in the godswood. “That’s why I killed him.” Her fists clenched beside her. “So why do I feel like this?” She looked up at him. 

Sansa was crying and there was an expression of profound sadness and pain there that it made Tyrion’s chest ache. Yet, there was also anger. And he realized that she mad at herself for feeling the way she did. 

He wasn’t sure how to answer. 

She took a breath and shook her head. Wiping the tears from her eyes she tried to compose herself. 

“It didn’t happen.” He heard her say to herself softly. She grabbed the basin of water and towel on the ledge next to her and started scrubbing the dried blood from her hands. “It didn’t happen.” She said again, almost as though if she said it enough it would be true. She scrubbed harder.

“Sansa, stop,” Tyrion grabbed her wrists and even though she was stronger than him she didn’t pull away. 

Her hands were already red, the skin irritated from her attempt to cleanse them. Despite her efforts they were far from clean. 

“It  _ did _ happen.” She almost flinched at his words, as though he had violated some kind of rule. 

Tyrion couldn’t fathom why she would try to deny what had happened, unless she feared all her future decisions would be tainted by this one. She had done what she had thought was right but some part of her either regretted it or felt sick over it. 

Tyrion was not a stranger to killing, he had been in a battle after all. He’d felt somewhat sick afterwards and he knew that taking another’s life was unnatural. It was not something that could be easily done. 

“You can’t just block it out,” he reasoned, “It’s part of you now.” Sansa’s eyes widened again and she looked like she would be sick. He mentally slapped himself, to her it probably sounded like he was saying she was now a murderer forever. 

“What I mean is,” he paused trying to figure out exactly what he did mean. “If you forget about it then you’ll make decisions blindly, that doesn’t mean you can’t trust what you believe is right to do but by remembering the consequences of your past actions you’ll consider things more fully,” it was a sloppy way of putting it and he hated that the words wouldn’t come more easily or eloquently. “So you won’t have to feel like this again.” Tyrion finished.

He released her wrists and pulled her into a hug. Seeing that expression on her face was too difficult. He wanted her to smile again and to look as strong as he knew she was. Sansa buried her face in his shirt and mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like ‘I love you.’ His heart had stopped momentarily when he heard her words and swell of hope and something that felt a whole lot like happiness filled him.

“What was that?” Tyrion asked, sounding playful. He could see her ears were red, so her answer didn’t surprise him.

“I said ‘thank you.’” She mumbled and Tyrion thought he had never heard someone lie so badly in the whole of his life.

* * *

Joffrey’s wedding was boring, and it was a considerable chore for him to keep himself awake. He could tell Sansa felt sorry for the Tyrell girl and Tyrion couldn’t help but feel the same way. Just as he had with Sansa, Joffrey had latched onto the girl and clearly had her with him every hour of the day; if the girl’s expression of slight annoyance was any indication. 

The ceremony had been the worst part, at least at the banquet Tyrion could talk. A lot of the conversation at his end of the table was about the war. Apparently Robb Stark was a formidable enough opponent for Tywin to be stuck battling him instead of coming to his grandson’s wedding. Neither Tyrion nor Cersei had heard from their father for quite some time and it was beginning to worry Cersei. In all honesty Tyrion knew there must be something wrong.

Out of the corner of his eye Tyrion saw a breathless messenger sprint up to the dais where Joffrey, Cersei, and the new queen were seated. The man whispered something and Cersei’s eyes narrowed; he saw Joffrey speak up although he couldn’t hear what they were saying. 

It was clear though that Joffrey was arguing with his mother. The little king must have won since the messenger dashed away and then returned with another man carrying a rather large and heavy looking chest. There was a clanging that silenced the hall and Joffrey stood.

“Seems even the Stark traitor knows enough to respect me,” Joffrey said, smirking. Tyrion could feel Sansa tense beside him. “He sent me a gift for my wedding.” 

Beside the king Cersei looked uneasy as she eyed the box that was set before her son. Joffrey looked eager to open it and the messenger handed him the key for it. Without further talk or preoccupation Joffrey opened the box.

Joffrey’s smile dropped at the sight of his wedding gift, but his expression was flat. Cersei had a more normal reaction as she made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a scream and in her hurried action of trying to get away from what was in the box she pushed the table forward which tipped back and fell, the box clattering to the floor as well. 

And everyone saw what Robb Stark had given king Joffrey. 

When the box hit the ground the head of Tywin Lannister rolled from it. There were screams from the women and a general uproar arose. But as Tyrion looked at it he didn’t feel what he ought to.

It was a gruesome and disgusting sight to be sure, but instead of feeling sad that his father had died or even upset, to him it was like seeing the head of a stranger. When he looked at his father’s head, his blood, he realized the reason he didn’t feel particularly affected was because Tywin Lannister, while his father, was not his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!


	23. Jon

Winter had definitely come. Despite heading due east instead of north the weather was becoming colder. Snow began to fall every evening and then in the day as well. It made for slow going and it meant they were losing time, but then so were the Greyjoys. 

At the rate they were going Jon realized that their two armies would in fact meet at the Dreadfort, even though Jon and his men had a head start. Jon’s force was smaller compared to the forces of both the Greyjoy’s and the Bolton’s. Facing the pair united was daunting. But then the Stark’s men had been trained well, far better, Jon thought, than most of the soldiers from the other Houses; largely because there was such a focus on strength within the Stark household. 

The only thing that truly filled Jon Stark’s mind though, was strategy and tactics. Figuring out what he was going to do once he actually reached the Dreadfort. His force was smaller, yes, but that was not necessarily a disadvantage. 

The land around the fort was mostly flat except for the river Weeping Waters, which ran alongside it. No hills or forests, just flat land. Jon did have some knowledge of the inside workings and ground plans of the place, although they might be outdated. But since House Bolton seemed a rather stagnant and change-resistant house Jon figured what he knew should be adequate. 

Some centuries before this, the Boltons had rebelled against the Starks which led to a four year siege. The Starks won in the end and documentation of the Boltons and the Dreadfort were collected by the Stark historians at the time. There was also a lot of information on House Bolton in general. So Jon was able to formulate a rudimentary plan of attack.

He had to assume that they knew he was coming, but he could also count on them coming out to meet him. It was true Roose Bolton, the current head of the House, was a more calculating and probably well seasoned warrior and would want to stay locked inside the safe confines of the fort, but his heir and bastard son Ramsay, Jon had heard, was described as reckless. 

If the father would not meet him in battle his son surely would regardless of the elder Bolton’s orders, especially if Jon gave a small push or two. And that was what Jon needed, for the gate of the Dreadfort to be opened just once. 

Bran did not like his idea, and Jon knew why. In many respects he didn’t like his own idea either. But if he wanted to avoid a lengthy siege he needed to take a few risks.

As they neared the Dreadfort Jon sent a raven to Lord Bolton. On the off chance that the Boltons would reconsider joining the Greyjoys, Jon wrote as though there were no connection between the two rebelling Houses. He asked Lord Bolton to aid him in putting down the budding rebellion. 

Clearly Lord Bolton wanted war, however, his answer being the flayed skin of Jon’s raven and a letter cursing the Stark name. They thought House Stark was weak with Robb and the majority of their forces gone. Maybe they were right, but Jon hoped not. 

He sent a second letter then, designed to coax Ramsay onto the battlefield. The note asked whether they would choose to cower behind their walls as they had centuries ago, or meet him on the field like a true warrior would. To Ramsay, Jon knew, it would simply read: coward. 

It was still snowing when they reached their destination. The weather had proven a wondrous ally. For Jon, the absence of Bran was odd, or rather the absence of Ghost was. 

Bran had been with Jon almost all the time, clearly dreading his vision would come to pass. With Jon’s plan though, Bran would need to leave his brother’s side. Visibility wasn’t the best, but as Jon’s men approached, beating their swords against their shields and shouting insults at the black walls, Jon could see the gate lifting and a swarm of men poured from the fort. 

As Jon had suspected Roose Bolton had not condoned his son’s actions and the gate was clamped shut almost as soon as it was open. Nevertheless, enough men had come from the Dreadfort to outnumber Jon’s, though not by much.

At the moment though, Ramsay would think he had a great advantage because Jon had split his troops, one half clamoring to meet the bastard Bolton and the other hidden in the snow. There was a short scrimmage between the two forces before Jon called for retreat. 

Ramsey and his troops surged forward, him and his men now in a thin line formation, but as they did so the other half of Jon’s soldiers appeared, cutting Ramsay’s garrison in half. Jon and his men who were at the front now had a local superiority in numbers, although they had precious little time to dispatch the forward group before those in the flank broke through Jon’s men. 

Jon’s men were quick and efficient in their kills, just as they had been trained to be, just as the entire Stark household had been trained to be. Jon lost sight of Ramsay, but half his men were gone as Jon’s men moved forward.

Roose Bolton must have thought himself safe behind his walls, probably scoffing at his son’s foolishness as he had no doubt expected his son’s attack to fail. Outside the fort the battle was won, the Stark banner whipping ferociously in the snowy wind. 

The real battle was just beginning. 

As Jon and his men took on the latter half of Ramsay’s men, the men who had cut Bolton’s forces retreated. Not for long though. The gate to the Dreadfort began to rise very slowly. Jon’s men had enough purchase on the gate though, to begin to push it up. His men were inside.

Jon spurred his horse towards the gate but a well aimed arrow to the flank of his mare sent him careening to the snow covered ground. One of his legs was stuck under his horse, which was on its side, flailing in an attempt to get up. Jon was able to free his leg, a sharp pain shooting through it as he stood. 

Jon had not released the grip on his sword when he had fallen, so he was armed. Few of Jon’s men were still outside the fort; the choke points within the Dreadfort would render numbers relatively useless. 

He looked for his attacker and was not surprised to see it was Ramsay who was heading towards him with fire in his eyes. Jon’s jaw tightened as did his grip on his sword as he was charged.

Ramsay was a strong fighter. He’d had no formal training but he was deadly with his blade. His lack of training also meant he was unpredictable in a fight; he had no style or technique to base any kind of counter on. But then, Arya had always been unpredictable in a fight, so it wasn’t an entirely new situation for Jon, although the Bolton bastard was much larger and stronger than his younger sister. 

Jon was on the defensive, not because of Ramsay’s strength but because somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered what Bran had told him. That he had died during this battle. He would be attacked from behind, so Jon gave a good deal of his focus to his surroundings instead of focusing only on Ramsay. Jon had not seen Theon yet, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there.

“Your father never taught you to fight?” Ramsay growled in frustration at Jon’s defensive style. Jon’s expression didn’t change, he would not let the bastard’s insults get to him or pull his focus away from where it needed to be. “Your bitch of a mother never–” 

In a flash Jon shoved Ramsay’s sword aside and slammed his fist into his face. 

Ramsay fell a few steps back, having been taken by surprise. 

Jon’s eyes were narrowed dangerously and his teeth were bared. He hadn’t consciously moved to attack his enemy like that, it had just happened in a moment of anger.

Realizing that he had given Ramsay the fuel to taunt him into making a mistake Jon knew he needed to prevent that from happening. His best option was to end the battle before his opponent had time to use his advantage. Placing his full focus onto the fight Jon attacked. 

The Bolton was overwhelmed when his enemy turned from passive defender to aggressive assailant. Jon wasn’t sure what stopped him, perhaps it was the sound of footsteps that he would have ignored had Bran’s vision not been present in his mind’s eye. 

Something had changed in his surroundings and immediately Jon disengaged from Ramsay and pivoted to the side, just in time to avoid and see Theon’s blade. Its trajectory not having been reached it now was outstretched and pointed straight at Bolton. 

Without thought, Jon grasped Theon’s wrist and yanked him forwards and plunged the Greyjoy’s sword into Ramsay. 

It had happened so fast none of them were prepared to do anything. Even Jon himself was caught off guard, he had moved by reflex not needing to waste any time in thinking or preparing his attack. 

With Theon stuck where he was his weapon still inside Ramsay, Jon flipped his sword and jabbed the butt of it into Theon’s head. Shoving his enemies back he looked down at them, Ramsay reaching for his weapon, his crazed eyes still burning fire, and a pathetic and unconscious looking Theon. 

Jon didn’t need to think about what he did next. He put Ramsay out of his misery, granted him mercy; his sword impaled his head easily. Theon he needed alive.

Jon’s path was cleared now he looked up towards the Dreadfort only to see Ghost standing a few meters from him. Blue eyes watched him. Bran hadn’t wanted to leave him; Jon knew that, which was why he was there now. He had been running to save his brother. But Jon didn’t need saving. 

Approaching his younger brother Jon ruffled Ghost’s head affectionately. Jon ordered Theon be detained, he would be the only person who survived the attack on the Dreadfort.

“I’m fine,” Jon told him when he saw worry in the blue eyes gazing up at him. He noticed that Ghost’s mouth was red. “Is it over?” Bran nodded. “Did we win?” Bran snorted and Jon laughed. “Come on then.” 

Jon did not like the Dreadfort, it made him feel claustrophobic. He made his way up to the main room, following his younger brother as he led him to Lord Bolton. The man’s throat had been torn out but his lifeless stone eyes were still unnerving. 

Still, no one could say Bran was not a true wolf, his skills as a beast having been honed through Grey Wind. Every enemy in the Dreadfort was dead. Deciding what to do with the place would be difficult, perhaps, for some. But for Jon and Bran Stark it was easy. The place had an ancient history of death and torture. It would be leveled to the ground.

* * *

Only a few days into their journey east towards the Iron Islands** Jon learned of Robb’s injury. It seemed unreal. As children Robb always seemed to be untouchable. No one could best him, although he hadn’t really been bested by Tywin Lannister and he had won in the end. Still there was an ache inside him that he rarely felt. Jon had always worried about Robb and always would. He felt it was his job to take care of his brother and he felt he was not living up to what his family believed. Family was the most important and a small piece of Jon felt he had failed. But then there was the ache. One he felt most often in childhood. They were supposed to be twins, and they were certainly close, yet for all Jon’s empathy he could not tell when his brother was injured. He’d read about other Stark twins in the histories of the House and there always seemed to be a strong otherworldly connection between them.

Twins could feel when the other was injured, or hurt or even just upset. That was what Jon had read. So it ached unbelievably when he realized he could not feel his twin’s pain. For Robb it was understandable, he was hardly empathetic, those were the qualities Jon had gotten. For Jon though, it felt like a failure.

There was something to do with Sansa that Bran tried to convey but Jon couldn’t understand beyond the fact that she wasn’t injured or dead. Bran had seemed very upset at him and Jon thought it must be that Arya was able to decipher it and so him being unable to was frustrating Bran to no end. 

Jon’s leg was a bit stiff still, and it had swollen but it was more of an inconvenience than a hindrance. He would recover easily but it would take some time. His other wounds were minor as well. Bran was with him almost always even though the danger to his life was over. It seemed from the way his younger brother watched him that he was waiting for Jon to break down. 

Jon remembered when Bran had first seen blood and taken a life, even though it was out of his control, he had been sick. The same kind of reaction was suspected of him, Jon realized. But Jon’s sickness did not manifest in such a way. Instead he found himself having trouble sleeping. Not to a great degree, but enough to realize it wasn’t normal. Bran had not noticed.

They headed a bit north as they approached the Shivering Sea; they needed ships and the closest place to get them would be at Karhold. The House of Karstark, aside from having strong familial ties to the Starks, were also supporting Robb, which meant they were allies. If Jon was lucky he hoped to gain more men while there. Arnolf Karstark was acting regent in the absence of Lord Rickard Karstark, who was fighting with Robb in the south. As expected they were welcomed and Arnolf provided them with the ships they needed, although not with the men Jon hoped to obtain. Apparently Karhold was practically emptied of soldiers and needed to retain the few they had to protect themselves. As they set off, Arnolf warned them that he had never in all his years seen such a winter as was falling upon the north. Sea travel might be dangerous. Jon took this into account, but as it was he felt he needed to press onwards and finish the entire affair before it really got going.

It was just as they approached the islands that the weather truly turned terrible. Jon could see the islands before them, but the snow made the mainland impossible to see. They landed on the island of Pyke, the seat of House Greyjoy. It was now that Theon was to complete his usefulness. Directly after the attack Jon had Theon write a letter to his father, Lord Balon, explaining that the Stark’s were besieging the Dreadfort and that he was returning for reinforcements. 

Lord Balon would see in those words his son’s cowardice and accept it as truth. The awful weather had made sending ravens difficult, but the storm was moving from west to east. Hopefully no news of what had happened at the Dreadfort would reach Lord Balon’s ears; although Jon wasn’t sure anyone actually did know what happened considering no one but his men and Theon left the place alive.

The storm concealed Jon’s boats, taking only one to the port and having Theon procure their landing. Theon Greyjoy was a coward so he told Jon everything he knew about his father’s plans for rebellion, but he was also greedy; Jon knew this and manipulated him accordingly. He promised him he could be the head of the House of Greyjoy once the rebellion was put down. 

Theon saw how Jon had taken the Dreadfort and so thought him to be the stronger fighter, so he accepted, believing himself to be on the winning side. The disgust Jon felt was rancid. Theon believed him because Jon had cited their growing up together but more importantly because Jon was the ‘good one.’ If it were Robb who had offered Theon would have done it out of fear of death. It was Jon who offered though, and that meant, to Theon at least, that the promise would be kept.

Jon’s other ships did not land at port; rather they skirted the island until they were along the rocky cliffs next to the walls. By now Jon knew his men were slowly making their way up the cliffs and into the snow, hiding as close as they could to the Gatehouse. Jon was with Theon, acting as a sell-sword hired by Theon for protection. Asha*, Theon’s sister, had been at the landing to meet them and was throwing insults at her brother. 

Apparently his character was very well known by his family despite him growing up at Winterfell. Upon seeing it was a young girl who would lead them through the gate Jon hated what he would have to do. As soon as the gate was lifted and they were walking in, Jon stabbed Asha through the back of her neck. His blade had been drawn since they had landed so she wouldn’t hear him unsheathing it and so he wouldn’t hesitate. The guardsman who was opening the gate stopped momentarily, the raging snow providing poor visibility but he could still tell something was wrong. 

Ghost zipped past him and into the keep and was instantly at the guardsman’s throat. Jon could not see his wolf at all any more. He felt his men creeping in behind him. There were few guardsmen out due to the weather, and the ones that were could be taken out swiftly and quietly. They were in the Great Keep. Jon’s men grabbed the Greyjoy cloaks from their fallen enemy. The cold meant everyone was bundled up, especially the guardsmen. 

Theon led them through the halls and then across the bridgeway to the Bloody Keep. That was where the Greyjoy family would be. But Jon didn’t want to chance having them escape across to the Sea Tower, making themselves impossible to get to. So he had his men circle all the way around to the back and to then to head back towards the Bloody Keep. Theon and himself, as well as a small number of his men, would not go but rather continue on to meet Lord Balon. 

Lord Balon was not happy to see his son, and Jon could tell Theon wasn’t too happy to be in his father’s presence. Balon barked out cutting remarks about his son leaving the Dreadfort for fear of a siege. He seemed to blame his son for the foul weather as well, which prevented any ships from leaving the port.

“It would be just my luck for my idiot son to survive such a storm.” Theon flinched at his father’s words. Jon let the elder Greyjoy continue to rant as it allowed his own men more time. At last though, something about the situation must have seemed odd to Balon. “Where’s Asha?” Theon didn’t know how to answer and Jon said nothing. “Where is my heir?” The old man growled then he noticed something else. Something Jon hadn’t actually planned on. “Why is there a wolf…” Ghost had entered the room. Balon’s eyes moved from the beast to his son to the still bundled sell-sword. Despite knowing the old Lord’s words were about Ghost, Jon answered anyway.

“He’s here to end this rebellion.” Jon brandished his bloodied sword. Lord Balon called for his guards, and guards came, some even wearing the Greyjoy cloak. But none of them were Greyjoy men. Jon was told the castle was secure; some of the Greyjoy family had been in the Sea Tower; Jon told his men to bring them to the Bloody Keep. Anyone of Greyjoy lineage was to be brought.

Theon was looking anxious as he watched his brethren brought in, hands tied and forced to their knees. He should be anxious, Jon thought, perhaps some part of the boy knew what was coming. Jon remembered his mother’s words, and he knew she was right. Jon told his men to leave him, he wouldn’t need any help, they were all bound except for Theon, and Jon could handle Theon. The blue eyed ghost didn’t want to leave and at first thought the order didn’t apply to him but he left with a sharp look from his older brother.

Jon looked over the entire Greyjoy line, men, women, children, and elderly. His heart bled and he so badly wanted to believe that he was a great man like his father, but knew from the way his mother had said the words that ‘great’ could also mean ‘stupid.’ If he kept his promise to Theon, or even if he just allowed some other Greyjoy who would swear their allegiance to the House of Stark, there might very well be another rebellion, perhaps even within Jon’s lifetime. He didn’t want Robb’s children, who would be the heirs of the House, or even his own children to have to fight the same battle over and over. 

Ned Stark had fought the Greyjoy rebellion with honor and for honor. Jon, by some accounts, had cheated in the way he defeated his enemies, but he had taken on this endeavor for his family. Family came first, and while Jon knew he would always feel guilty and maybe even regretful over what he had to do, he would still do it. And he had to be the one to do it; he wouldn’t make his soldiers kill in cold blood.

“You said I would be Lord Greyjoy,” Theon’s voice broke him from his thoughts. He was trying to sound impatient, but it sounded more like a plea. Jon nodded. That much he could give him. Jon slit Lord Balon’s throat. There were some sounds of hysterics from the women and children. Jon left the broken body of the once Lord Greyjoy and approached Theon.

“And now you are Lord Greyjoy,” Theon smiled but as he did so Jon jabbed his knife into his throat. The smile was still there, now bloody, and Jon caught his body as it fell and lowered it to the ground. “You’ll have the shortest reign of all Greyjoys, but you’ll also be the last.” Those that heard his words realized what he was going to do. To the sounds of screaming and crying he killed every last one of them. The Bloody Keep was now painted in blood.

Jon closed the doors to the keep behind him, not letting anyone see into the room, although they must have known what had happened. They would have heard all of it. His face was grim, but that was all he showed his men. Awe and fear was now associated with Jon’s name. He was the empathetic one, the kind one, the good one, but also the one who wiped out the Bolton and Greyjoy lines.

* * *

Jon couldn’t sleep. Everytime he closed his eyes he saw their faces and felt sick. Outwardly during the day nothing seemed wrong with him, which was why Bran didn’t know about it and his men knew nothing of it either. When he did fall asleep he would wake not an hour later with a cold sweat and a trembling to his limbs. Their voices would echo in his ears. Their screams of fear and pain. It was only sleep though. Jon knew it would get worse; that is he could only function on so little sleep for only a small amount of time.

Just as with the Dreadfort, Jon wanted to destroy the Keep; to use the Greyjoy’s siege engines upon the castle it was meant to protect. But the destruction of the castle was put on hold as when the storm lifted there were ships on the horizon; ships from the east. Even from the current distance Jon could see the ships looked foreign. It wouldn’t take long for them to arrive and that worried Jon. His men were weary, and he himself had barely slept. 

They stayed within the castle they had taken, its defence some of the best in Westeros. Jon wanted to speak first, with his would be attacker, for if a battle or siege could be avoided that was the course he would prefer. So the moment they landed a messenger was there to greet them and invite them to have an audience with him. Jon was told they accepted. Jon was surprised the foreigner agreed to being allowed only ten guardsmen. But perhaps that told him that whoever it was did not want to fight. It turned out the foreigner was not so foreign after all.

He heard news that it was a Targaryen that had landed and that it was the mother of dragons. Jon had not heard any of these rumors until now and was skeptical, and rightfully so. They met in the Great Keep, and that was when Jon knew at least part of the rumor was correct. It was a Targaryen. Silver-blond hair and purple eyes told him that. She was beautiful, but she was also a potential threat.

“You are Lord Stark?” She asked. Jon hesitated briefly, for Robb was the head of the house, but then Robb was King Stark, but he corrected her nonetheless.

“Lord Jon Stark,” he took in her appearance, she dressed more like a man than the queen she was supposed to be. “And you are the Queen of Dragons?” That was what he had heard her called.

“King of Dragons,” her eyes flashed dangerously. Her usage of the male honorific was odd but Jon had to admit Arya and maybe even Sansa would have preferred to be called King to Queen. She must have seen something in his eyes since she relaxed seeming to decide he did not disrespect her due to her gender. “King Daenerys Targaryen.”

“This is not the seat of the Stark House,” the knight beside her spoke, his voice sounded dark. Jon could see the man was not a foreigner as Daenerys’ other guards were; he looked to be from Westeros.

“This was the seat of the Greyjoy House,” Jon conceded, his voice calm and controlled. He noticed Daenerys watching him. He wanted to explain things for what they were. Daenerys’ knight clearly thought it was part of the battle of kings in the south, that Jon was procuring the rest of the north for his brother as Robb went to take the throne. “I came to put down a rebellion.” He addressed Daenerys as he continued. “Robb Stark, my brother, King in the North, is not seeking the Iron Throne,” he heard the knight scoff at his words. “All he wants is an independent north and our sister back.”

“And revenge?” Daenerys casually asked, still watching him. She must have heard some news about that goings on in Westeros. Revenge was a large part of it, whether he wanted to tell her this or not he wasn’t sure. But clearly she had heard of the death of Eddard Stark. When Jon didn’t answer she spoke again. “You said this ‘was’ the seat of the Greyjoy House?” Jon’s fists clenched and his jaw set. Looking at the King though, she didn’t look like she was accusing him, rather she looked curious. Jon swallowed.

“Their line is gone,” it took a moment for the knight to register his words and then there was outrage and horror on his face.

“Women and children?” The knight asked in disbelief. He looked like he wanted to kill Jon. Daenerys was unreadable although he thought she might have seemed a little perturbed by her knight’s words.

“I fight my battles once,” Jon answered. His words were not defensive or apologetic; no, despite what struggles he may experience internally he knew it was what had needed to be done if he wanted to put an end to the Greyjoy rebellions once and for all. The King’s face was impassive but thoughtful.

“That’s–”

“Jorah,” Daenerys silenced her knight with a hiss. Then more softly or maybe more understandingly she said: “I too have had to do terrible things for my power.” Jon was taken aback for a moment.

“It wasn’t for power,” Jon almost growled. “It was for my family.” He took a breath, knowing he should not have spoken to her like that. “If you’ve come for the Iron Throne, then go take it.” Jon was tired of the whole conversation. “But I, and certainly my brother, will not cede you the north.” Daenerys did the last thing he expected. She laughed.

“What makes you think I can’t just take the north?” She asked slyly, then more seriously. “You think you’re safe behind these walls?” Daenerys turned to leave the Keep and Jon followed to see her off, but when they reached the courtyard between the Keep and the walls she stopped. 

It must have been by her will alone that her children came then. From where they were atop the hill Jon could see three large dark shapes shoot off from the ships. In an instant he realized all the rumors had been true. Three large dragons, larger than a war horse, landed upon the walls, the stone bending and crunching under their immense weight. Jon knew she could tell he was shocked, and perhaps even a little scared at the sight. Still, his eyes narrowed as he formulated his feelings into thinking of how he could possibly win this. 

“Will you still not cede me the north?” Her voice had a smile in it and when his eyes flitted back from her dragons to her he saw she was grinning.

“No, I will not.” Jon told her firmly. He knew he could not win a fight like this, but he would not give up his home, he would protect his family and do his duty. “You can kill me and take this Keep, you can take Winterfell, but Robb will not give you the north either. No Stark will.” Daenerys was not smiling any longer, which made Jon tense all the more.

“You’re right though,” Daenerys said suddenly and smiled again. “I came for the Iron Throne, I don’t want the north.” No doubt she had read it was not rich in resources, it was not that much of a loss. But to Jon and his siblings it was home. Jon relaxed somewhat at her words, though he still watched the dragons. He couldn’t believe the size of them, couldn’t believe how fast they must have grown.

Jon didn’t notice as Ghost lightly approached the King. Daenerys stroked the wolf’s white fur. Jon looked over and saw blue eyes. Bran. He nudged Daenerys in what some might think was an act of affection. But his constant eye contact with his brother told Jon something else. Jon muttered the word ‘Winterfell’ and Bran nodded. Something in Bran’s eyes told him it was important. 

“If you landed north so that you could attack by land you’ll need to go through Stark territory,” Jon began getting Daenerys’ attention. “As I said, Robb doesn’t want the Iron Throne, so our goals are compatible.” Bran better have a very good reason for this. “I’d like to invite you to Winterfell, King Daenerys.”

“I accept, Lord Jon Stark.” Jon wasn’t quite sure what to feel about that smile of hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!  
> Note: *Named Yara in the TV show  
> ** See Ch 14 notes


	24. Daenerys

Dany had never seen snow before. Her Dothraki warriors were not used to such weather and they were bundled in multiple layers of furs. Some of the Second Sons had originally been from Westeros and so were, if not used to such weather, not in awe of it as were those native to Essos. There were also the warriors she had obtained from Braavos, they however were impossible to read. 

Despite all this though, Dany didn’t feel cold. Perhaps it was her dragon blood that kept her warm. Her own dragons did not seem to like the cold but she was able to sooth them and keep them from breathing flames. Yes, her children had learned quickly to breathe fire. It was when they had arrived in Braavos that they first did it. Dany had been so proud, especially because that was what drew the Braavos warriors to her side. The warriors of the north however, those that followed Jon Stark, were wary of the beasts and kept their distance.

She glanced over at the dark-haired man, the brother of the northern king. He was a handsome man, and seemed to be a master of keeping his thoughts hidden. Dany could see his eyes looked darker every day though, and she wondered whether his men noticed and chose to say nothing or whether perhaps, she was watching him a little too closely. But she was impressed by him, by what she had heard and what she had seen.

Dany had heard about his attack on the Dreadfort and had seen the aftermath of his attack on House Greyjoy. Jon Stark had power. He could decide whether a person lived or died. 

But he did not rely purely on his army as many other leaders did. No, he had been the one to erase the Greyjoys from existence. Jorah was revolted by it and did not hide his dislike for the northerner. It was different for Dany though.

Night fell and they made camp, the snow had stopped but the temperature continued to drop. Despite the late hour Dany couldn’t sleep. In fact she hadn’t been able to sleep all that much in the evenings. 

Usually she stayed in her tent, thinking or reading, but tonight she went out into the cold. Her children were cold blooded and she could see they did not like the north but they seemed fine. 

She ran her hands across their scaly hides before something caught her eye: a dark figure sitting in the snow. She approached him and had guessed correctly that it was Jon. His wolf lay curled next to him, its ear twitching and yellow eyes opening as she neared.

“You’re not cold?” He asked her although he hadn’t turned to see her; she wondered how he had known it was her. Dany wasn’t bundled in furs like the rest of her men, something Jon had apparently noticed. She snorted and seated herself beside him in the snow.

“I’m a dragon,” she told him, a smile in her voice. “There’s fire in my veins.” She’d heard her brother say some such nonsense before. “And you?” Dany returned his question just then realizing he wasn’t wearing his fur cloak.

“I’m a wolf.” He shot back with a smirk. She gave a short bark of laughter at his answer. Jon’ s expression faded or maybe retreated back to the one she was familiar with: unreadable and closed off. 

Dany could understand that, she was an invading force after all. She’d seen him with his men and Jon was certainly more jovial when dealing with them. His gaze returned to the snowy plains in front of them. 

“Why are you up so late?” He asked. Dany wasn’t sure she would call it ‘late’ considering it was the early morning.

“The further west I travel the less tired I am at night,” she answered honestly. “And you?” Eyeing him though, Dany could see he had dark circles under his eyes and within his eyes a deep unyielding tiredness. It was something she’d seen before, a long time ago.

“Just keeping watch.” If she didn’t know any better she would have believed him; if she hadn’t been looking close enough she would have accepted his answer.

“You can’t sleep,” it was a statement not a question and she saw Jon bristle. “Can you?” Her voice was soft when she spoke, for Dany had at last recognized the way he looked, it was different from what she’d seen before, but nevertheless she’d seen something akin to it in the mirror for days after she had killed Mago. It was insomnia.

Jon didn’t answer her and she knew he would not elaborate. Dany was still a stranger to him, yet for some reason Dany felt they were the same. Both leaders of men, both seeking power, perhaps for different reasons but their methods were the same. 

Dany did not want the north, not really. She would be satisfied with the Iron throne; and if she left the north independent she would want friendship with them, for war was expensive and not something Dany wished to do unless truly necessary.

She wanted to be a ruler, not forever a conqueror. Friendship had to be fostered and she figured starting right then was as good a time as any. She would have to initiate it she realized, and that would mean placing some trust in Jon Stark. In truth, it wasn’t that difficult for her, since no matter what she told him it wasn’t as though he could hurt her.

“I killed a man to become the Khal of the Dothraki,” Dany began, speaking rather matter-of-factly. “I couldn’t sleep for weeks,” her voice softened as the memories came flooding back. No matter what Jorah had said, she still saw it as a weakness. “It got better,” she tried to smile but it was weak. “After a while.” 

Until she had killed again, then it had come back. But she found the more she killed the less it affected her.

“It goes away.” Dany assured him. For several minutes Jon said nothing, and Dany wondered whether he would say anything at all.

“I can still see their faces,” his voice was quiet. “Still hear their screams.” He closed his eyes and gave a sad smile. “Everytime I close my eyes.”

Dany knew she could never really understand. He had killed women and children, innocents in cold blood. She had no idea how she would have felt if it had been her.

“And you regret it?” Dany asked him. He had looked sad as he talked about it. But he shook his head, his eyes opening.

“No.” He could not regret his decision but it would still haunt him for the rest of his life. Dany reached out and took his hand.

* * *

They reached Winterfell at sunset. Jon had told her she was free to stay within the walls as were her men; after seeing her dragons he seemed to have realized it didn’t matter whether she brought five men or a hundred, armed or unarmed. Her army was large though, so the majority of it was camped outside the walls; her children likewise preferred to remain in the forest rather than behind stone walls.

“My brother, Bran, would like to speak with you,” Jon had told her once he showed her to her quarters. “When you’re available.”

“Then take me to him.” It was late and she could tell Jorah thought it best if they waited until tomorrow, but she waved him off. She wanted to know what the young Stark had to say to her.

The way Jon had asked her made her think perhaps, it was the only reason she was there. The boy was sitting in bed when they entered, something she would have thought rude until she saw the crutches by his bed. Another wolf sat beside the bed watching her. She had been told the dire wolf was practically extinct yet she had seen three so far.

“King Daenerys,” the boy greeted and Dany was surprised he had called her ‘king’ instead of ‘queen.’ She brushed it off however, figuring his brother must have written him about it. The boy gestured to the chair beside him and then looked at Jorah. “I’d like to speak with the King privately.” Dany could tell he was about to protest.

“It’s fine,” she told him and with a curt nod he left. Jon, however, did not leave and the boy, Bran, did not comment on it further. Bran said nothing at first, seeming to be hesitating or debating something with himself.

“We need you help,” he said finally. Dany blinked and looked at Jon, but he seemed surprised by his brother’s words as well. “You know of the wall?” He asked and she had. “And the scourge from the north, centuries ago?” Dany vaguely remembered something along those lines. “They’re back.” He said flatly. “Whitewalkers, hundreds of thousands of them.”

“And you know this how?” She asked. Jon clearly hasn't had any idea prior to speaking to Bran, although he was away at war; still the boy was bed ridden. Besides, the sheer number of them he claimed seemed impossible. 

“My sister, Arya, went north to the wall,” she heard Jon mutter a ‘so that’s where she is,’ “A letter from her will be arriving a few days from now.” 

She wanted to ask how he would know that unless he had already received a letter prior, which he should have just shown them, but John seemed to have no questions in believing Bran. Dany wanted to know how this concerned her though. 

“They’re no longer men,” he continued. “They can’t be killed with a blade.” That caught her attention. “Fire seems to be the best way to kill them.”

“My dragons,” Dany understood now why and what he was asking. 

She supposed if she wanted a friendship with the north she should help them, afterall the war in the south was still raging and she would rather wait until someone had won before attacking; they’d be weak after such a war and she would be able to take the throne with ease.

Still perhaps she should take the north using the same strategy; wait until the whitewalkers had taken over before helping. But then the land might be too war torn and burnt to be usable and the majority of the population might be gone. The question was: was it worth it? She decided it wasn’t.

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

***

Jon showed her the quarters that had been prepared for her. He was about to leave when she spoke.

“So you did it for him?” Dany asked lightly. For a moment it looked like Jon wasn’t sure what she was talking about. “You slaughtered the entirety of two Houses for your family,” Dany elaborated, reminding him of his words the day they had met. “For him.” Jon was silent for a moment; in thought.

“Yes,” he finally said. “For Bran, and for the rest of my family.” 

“And it is for them you seek power?” But Jon scoffed, almost laughed and nearly looked offended. It was a strange combination of emotions that flickered across his face.

“I do not seek power,” Jon replied.

“Your actions say otherwise.” Dany told him dryly. To her it seemed clear he was not just seeking it but had it as well. He certainly didn’t seem to have any qualms with using his power either. She had not seen him on the battlefield, but then he himself did not necessarily need to be physically superior; he just needed to see what others could not and win the game of death. Again though, he looked upset by her words.

“My actions are to protect my family,” he tried to clarify. “If I need power to fulfill my duty then so be it.” There was coldness to his words as he spoke.

“You do everything for your family?” Dany asked a bit of incredulity present in her voice. 

In all honesty the very idea was hard to grasp. Dany had known some of her family, certainly her brother, but she had never felt such strong emotions for them as Jon Stark seemed to for his kin. 

Even marrying the Khal, she hadn’t done it for her brother so much as she was forced to by her brother. She’d never really willingly chosen to do something for Viserys. Dany watched him as he thought about how to explain it to her.

“My mother,” he began, “told me there are three important things in life: family, duty, and honor. So yes, everything I do is for my family. Family is the most important thing in life. But it’s more than just something you’re told as a child, more than just a single word.” 

She could tell how deeply he felt about the subject through his voice, even though he kept his expression neutral. 

“Because there’s no point in doing anything if you don’t have someone to love and someone to return that love.” He said and his eyes suddenly looked far away, but then, Dany supposed most of his family was far away. “What’s the point of having power if you’re alone?”

That was the first time Dany wondered about her own motivations, and it was the first time she thought about what would happen after she won back the Iron Throne. 

* * *

“We’re going north?” Jorah asked her in disbelief the next evening. She had waited in telling him her plans, partially because she wasn’t yet sure whether she would change her mind or not. In the end she didn’t. “That’s the complete opposite direction of the Iron Throne!”

“Yes, thank you for pointing that out.” Dany growled tursley. They were alone, but not in private, standing in the hallway. He sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair.

“Why?” She cocked an eyebrow at his question, she’d already told him about the whitewalkers, although she may have led him to believe the information was far more credible than it perhaps was. Dany could tell he was mad, but it couldn’t be merely because they were taking a detour on her quest. “Why are you helping them?” His nostrils flared, “Why don’t you wait until –”

“Because I don’t want the north!” Dany hissed angrily. She wanted to yell at him but didn’t want to draw attention or be overheard. In truth she had thought about what Jorah was suggesting. “Because the north is practically a wasteland!” And because in all honesty she was beginning to like the Starks.

“You like him don’t you?” Jorah asked suddenly. 

Dany knew whom he was talking about, but she didn’t answer. Instead she shot him a look telling him to drop it. But he didn’t. She’d just turned to leave when he called out to her. 

“He’s not what you think.” He snapped. She stopped, turned, and waited; all the while she began to seethe. “I spoke with an old woman here, she was the septa that delivered Robb Stark.” He paused to let the words sink in. “She didn’t deliver Jon, because he’s not Catelyn Stark’s son.” 

Dany’s expression hadn’t changed though, something she could tell Jorah had not been expecting, which is why he continued. 

“He might be Eddard Stark’s bastard or he might not even have any Stark blood in him at all–”

“I don’t give a damn about his blood,” Dany’s voice was both sharp and filled with anger. Her eyes were narrowed dangerously and her fists were clenched. 

Jorah was taken aback by not only her words but by the emotions behind them. Dany had long since learned that blood had nothing to do with anything. It wasn’t her blood that got her to where she was now, even without her dragons, and even without her unburnable skin she would have found another way of getting back the Iron Throne. Of that she was sure. 

Blood had nothing to do with power, not really. That was why to Dany, whether Jon Stark had noble blood in him simply didn’t matter. 

What mattered was whether he had power. And he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!


	25. Bran

Bran didn’t spy on people. Not usually, or rather not on purpose. It was by chance he had stumbled upon Cersei and Jamie and it was also by chance that he had been looking for the King and overheard Jorah’s words. He watched from Summer’s eyes as Dany swept past her knight leaving him utterly speechless.

Whether he had meant to hear their conversation or not didn’t matter anymore. Not after what he heard. He could feel a growl rumble through his throat. He couldn’t let Jorah repeat that information ever again or for that matter the King. But just as he prepared to pounce he stopped when he heard Daenerys voice.

“And Jorah?” She had stopped but she didn’t turn to look at her knight. “Don’t you ever repeat what you just said.” Even though she didn’t care, Daenerys apparently knew that others would. Jorah nodded and Bran knew he would keep his promise to his King. Bran still had an intense dislike for the man, but he decided that perhaps he didn’t have to kill him after all.

Bran’s mind retreated from Summer’s and returned to himself. The whole conversation ran through his mind again and again. Bran couldn’t banish the sense of fear that took hold over what he’d learned. Was it true? Did it matter?

In truth Bran didn’t care whether Jon shared his blood or not, he was family. Period. Sansa and Arya would feel the same way, it wouldn’t matter. Clearly it didn’t matter to their mother, because she loved him the same as the rest of them. But for Robb and Jon the damage might be irreparable regardless of its truth. 

This information would shake Robb to the core; because Jon was his other half. It was because they were twins that Robb didn’t feel he was missing compassion and kindness; because he did have it, Jon did. If they weren’t twins then it would mean Robb wasn’t whole; that there were parts of him that were missing. Robb would try to say it wasn’t a big deal but it would be to him. He’d feel alone and incomplete. As much as Robb tried to hide it Bran could see that Robb was agitated even now. Bran knew that Robb thought there was something wrong with him. Robb had never said anything, but Bran could see it. Bran could see everything. But he’d never say anything. 

And a memory came to the forefront of his mind. He hadn’t meant to spy then either:

_ Bran was watching Jon and Robb spar. They had only recently gotten their direwolves and Bran was content to play with Summer while he watched his older brothers out of the corner of his eye. Robb and Jon moved with seemingly effortless grace, a dance they both knew well. Truely, Bran thought, they were twins--one soul in two bodies. Robb’s eyes were bright with, joy maybe?, and Jon’s were ever keen and sharp. But Robb moved just a little quicker that day, struck a little too hard. In an instant his sword sliced past Jon’s arm. The wool jacket and shirt parted easily and there was a flash of red. _

_ Robb froze in place, his eyes wide and fixated on Jon’s upper arm where blood welled up and trickled from the light cut. A cut. That’s all it was. And yet Robb seemed to almost tremble. _

_ “Robb?” Jon called, concern heavy in his voice, which is what caught Bran’s attention. _

_ “I--” Robb started. He licked his lips and finally pulled his eyes away from the blood. His sword fell and Robb took a step back. “It was an accident…” He said quietly before turning and all but fleeing. Jon’s brow creased and he put his sword away before following after his twin. _

_ Bran watched it all, and couldn’t help but scramble after his two older brothers. He followed from a distance all the way to the stables. Bran stayed outside, feeling a little like an intruder as he peaked inside and saw Robb and Jon. _

_ “I hurt you…” Robb’s voice was quiet and his right hand, his sword hand, trembled. Bran couldn’t see his eyes, couldn’t honestly tell whether Robb was upset about the fact or whether he was excited about it. Bran frowned, no, Robb wouldn’t be excited about something like that. Ridiculous. He dismissed the thought.  _

_ “You didn’t mean to.” Jon pointed out, keeping calm. _

_ “...If I hadn’t meant to I wouldn’t have done it.” Robb murmured back. Jon frowned at his older twin’s words. “What if…” Robb trailed off, ground his teeth, almost looked afraid. But that was silly, Robb wasn’t afraid of anything. And why would he worry about Jon? _

_ “There’s nothing wrong with you,” Jon told him with conviction. Robb twitched, caught off guard by Jon’s correct assumption as to what was bothering him. “It’s just...we’re twins, right?” Robb nodded his assent, his eyes questioning. “Well, we’re one soul in two bodies then.” _

_ “I don’t think…” Robb trailed off though when Jon arched a single brow, as if daring him to disagree. _

_ “It makes sense though, doesn’t it. You’re harsher while I’m softer--” Robb frowned in silent disagreement, “--you’re louder and I’m quieter--” _

_ “I get the point,” Robb held up a hand and his mouth pulled into a slight grimace. Jon tilted his head a little in question, but Robb didn’t explain further.  _

_ “Look, if you’re ever worried about it again, just remember that I’m here to balance you out.” Jon smiled at him, warm and soft. “You’re not missing compassion or--or any other part of you, those parts are just in me.” Robb let out a short breath, shook his head, but smiled back. _

_ Bran hadn’t thought much about it really. In his mind, this was all just a long apology from Robb to Jon for accidentally cutting him. And really, Bran couldn’t picture Robb saying something like ‘I’m sorry’ so a longer conversation like this made more sense. Bran didn’t think too hard on the matter. _

Looking back on it, Bran realized Robb had really taken what Jon had said and run with it. He considered Jon his check, his balance. Bran felt cold inside at the realization. What would it do to Robb to find out Jon could be just as ruthless as him? And it made sense now too. They weren’t twins. Weren’t two sides of the same coin. No, they were both hard and even cruel when necessary. Robb was missing something. He was missing compassion and empathy. 

What would this knowledge do to Jon? Already Bran knew Jon worried about what it meant that he could so easily cast aside his empathy for others and kill everyone and anyone necessary. Even though Jon didn’t think so, Bran knew about his insomnia. No, what would be worse than wondering why he could be as harsh as Robb would be the knowledge that he might not be a Stark at all. Might not be family. That, that is what would destroy him. All the what ifs, the questions, the not knowing.

It was then that Bran realized their mother must know. There was no way for her not to. She had kept it a secret. Bran knew she must have a good reason for it. She always knew what to do and had a reason for the things she did. It was a secret she’d kept for the sake of the family. A big secret too. She’d kept it all this time. Not once letting something slip. Ultimately Bran decided no one could know. Bran would protect this secret, just as his mother did. It was his duty now, for the family.

The question was what should Bran do about the old woman that had delivered Robb? Apparently she had been persuaded to tell Jorah that Jon was not Robb’s twin. Was the woman simply so old at this point that she didn’t remember she shouldn’t be speaking about it? Or was she bought? The information couldn’t get out. The King was unlikely to say anything, Jorah had been ordered by the King to say nothing, his mother would never and had never disclosed the information, that left the old woman whose tongue was apparently loose.

Bran wasn’t a stranger to death. He’d killed. On the battlefield as a wolf though. He’d watched and he’d participated, drawing on the wolf’s instincts to rip out the throats of grown men. But he hesitated when he considered killing this old woman. It wasn’t her fault, probably. She’d never said anything before. She didn’t deserve to have her throat ripped out, probably. But he couldn’t just do nothing. What if she told someone else? Family. Duty. The words assaulted Bran’s mind.

What was he supposed to do about it? Bran couldn’t walk on his own, couldn’t move very well at all, so it wasn’t as though he could go and do something himself. Or could he? Bran grimaced. Was he really considering killing an old woman simply for knowing something she shouldn’t? Wasn’t that why Jamie had knocked him from the window? Bran felt sick thinking he had anything in common with the Lannister, but he didn’t see a fault in his logic.

But then, Bran didn’t really blame Jamie Lannister for what he’d done. It made sense. It was for family. That being said, Bran was in opposition to being killed just to keep some other family’s secrets. How could he reconcile this? Bran considered.

Everyone had goals. Even if everyone acted in the best interest of their family there would always be conflicts. Bran could understand actions taken for the sake of the family, but he could also be against the actions taken. Chewing his lip raw, Bran finally determined that the only course of action that made sense was to kill her. Why his heart felt heavy he wasn’t sure. But he had to do it, and he had to do it alone.

* * *

The trek north to the wall didn’t take as long as it could have. King Daenerys left the majority of her army along with Jorah at Winterfell. She took her dragons, and Jon took a medium sized force with them. So they moved faster than they would have with all of the King’s army. Still, it seemed to take forever for Bran. He’d check in through Ghost’s eyes every now and again to gauge how far they were.

Now though, with Jon and the King gone Bran had time to do what needed to be done.

The first thing Bran did was identify the old woman. It didn’t take much to find out who delivered Robb Stark. He invited her for a light lunch under the guise of wanting to hear stories about his older brothers. Prior to her arrival he used Summer to collect some poisonous herbs from the forest. Then it was simply a matter of grinding them up and slipping it into the old woman’s tea.

She was a pleasant enough woman. And Bran felt a cloud of oppressive emotion--guilt, shame, no he had nothing to be guilty for nothing to be ashamed of, oh but he did, he did. Bran shoved his emotions deep down, ignoring the questioning thoughts, the cries from within asking if this was truly what he wanted. Because this wasn’t the same as killing on the battlefield. This was cold blooded murder. Bran watched her drink the tea. He couldn’t stomach eating or drinking anything himself.

It was after he heard she had died that Bran started not being able to sleep.

Bran’s insomnia didn’t affect him as badly as Jon’s did. Bran had the advantage of letting his body sleep while his mind projected into the dire wolves. Still, Bran felt the mental strain. During quiet moments Bran questioned what he had done. Family. Duty. It was a mantra he repeated over and over in those moments. He couldn’t have been wrong. It couldn’t have been a mistake. He’d protected his family. He’d fulfilled his duty. Bran was certain his mother would have done the same.

On nights Bran couldn’t sleep he visited his siblings. Robb was preparing his attack on King’s Landing with the help of the Hound. Often though, during the nights, Robb spent time with Arwyn. Bran generally left his brother alone on such nights. He’d visit Arya often too, but felt like he didn’t belong when she spent time with Gendry and Yoren. His heart clenched at times like that, though Bran didn’t know why.

Jon was usually last on his list of family to visit, just because he’d spent so much time in Winterfell with him. Sometimes he would visit the dragons, keeping a good distance away but still close enough to see them. Bran sometimes felt like they could tell he was him and not Ghost.

One night, as he came into Ghost’s mind he found himself curled up in the corner of Jon’s tent. Jon was at his desk doing something. There was a sound from outside.

“Come in,” Jon called, getting up from his desk chair to greet whoever was visiting him in the middle of the night. Bran blinked in surprise, so did Jon. It was King Daenerys. “Uh, King Daen--” She quirked an eyebrow at him, he stopped, hesitated, “Dany, what can I do for you?” Bran realized she must have told him to call her that when they were alone.

“I couldn’t sleep, and I figured you couldn’t either since you never can.” Dany replied with a soft smile. Jon gave a strained one in response. “What?”

“It’s really not proper for you to be visiting my tent in the middle of the night like this.” Jon pointed out. “I wouldn’t want to be the cause of--”

“I’m King,” Dany cut in dryly. “I can go where I please.”

“Alright,” Jon accepted her presence easily. Despite his light protest Bran could tell he seemed more at ease in Dany’s presence than alone. “What can I do for you then, Dany?” Jon gestured to his desk chair, offering her a seat but she didn’t take it. Instead she stayed standing, watching him with her violet eyes.

“I thought a lot about what you said,” Dany told Jon conversationally. He arched a brow in question and she continued. “About what was the point of having power if you’re alone.”

“Ah.” Jon nodded in understanding. Bran would have frowned if he could. It seemed his brother and Dany had had many conversations he had not been privy to if the manner in which they spoke said anything. And it did. In volumes. “And?”

“I think you’re right.” Dany admitted. She toyed with her long braid of hair as she considered Jon. “Family, duty, honor, those were what you said were important in life, yes?” She didn’t wait for him to confirm it, “Well, it doesn’t apply to me very well, does it? I--I have no family left--” Dany’s voice caught and she blinked. 

She was looking at Jon, so Bran shifted his wolf eyes to his older brother. His breath would have caught too if it could. Jon’s brow was creased, and his eyes, his eyes looked to be filled with sadness. Sadness for her, for Dany.

“That must be terrible,” Jon said, voice rough with emotion. Dany seemed frozen, unsure how to react to receiving such sympathy. “I don’t know what I would do without my family…” He was quiet for a moment and Dany seemed to still be reeling. “My mother,” Jon started, “She became a Stark. She made her own family, and so can you. You may not have any family left, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have a family.” He smiled at her, and even with the dark circles under his eyes it looked so genuine. So it really didn’t surprise Bran, what happened next.

Dany strode forward, grasped Jon by the front of his shirt and pulled him down into a bruising kiss. Jon apparently hadn’t been expecting it at all. His eyes looked huge and his hands moved to hover over her back but didn’t touch her. Dany pressed further into his space, forcing him back a few steps until the back of his legs hit his bed.

Jon gripped Dany’s shoulders and gently pushed her back. Both of them gasped for breath. Dany was smiling. Jon just looked confused, but his cheeks were tinged pink.

“I--I didn’t mean for you to--I didn’t say that because I hoped or expected--”

“I know,” Dany broke in. She still sounded breathless. Bran considered leaving right then, just retreating from Ghost, but he waited. Wanting to know what Jon, what his brother, would do.

Dany leaned back up to kiss him again, but Jon stopped her. She seemed to freeze in place, and Bran knew she wondered whether she’d misread Jon. But Jon didn’t let her retreat, keeping his hands on her shoulders. 

“It’s not that I don’t like you--” Jon began, and the tension that stiffened Dany’s form had him speaking faster. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you, truely.”

“But?” Dany asked, tone clipped. Jon sighed.

“Allow me to court you properly,” His words had Dany’s eyes widening. Bran too was shocked by his brother’s words. Court the King? Was Jon crazy? When had he become so brazen? Or so familiar with the Dragon King?

But it made a lot of sense, Bran realized. Politically at least. A marriage between the King in the North’s brother and the King of the Iron Throne would, theoretically, ensure peace between the north and south. Except Bran had a feeling it wasn’t just the good politics of it that had Jon asking to court the King. The way they spoke to one another, so familiarly and with such ease made Bran suspect Jon actually enjoyed Dany’s presence. He liked her. And from what Bran could tell, she liked him too.

Bran retreated from Ghost’s mind. He felt like an intruder. Not for the first time, Bran felt lonely. He had no relationship like that. No closeness with another person beyond his family. Maybe that was enough. But then, Bran realized with a sinking feeling that he would likely never build a family of his own, never further the Stark family. That thought felt like a punch in the gut, and Bran wasn’t exactly sure why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!


	26. Jon

“Jon!” Arya called excitedly as she ran up to meet him.

It had taken a while, but not as long as normal, to get to the Castle Black at the Wall. Jon opened his arms and returned his sister’s embrace strongly. Even though he’d seen her not too long ago it felt like years.

“It’s good to—” Arya broke off, her eyes widening as she pulled back from Jon to get a better look. “Are those dragons?!”

“They are.” Dany answered with a smirk. Arya’s gaze slid over to the King, seemingly noticing her for the first time. “It’s good to meet you, I am King Daenerys.”

“Arya Stark,” Arya replied with a grin. “Welcome to the Wall.”

His sister led them inside and showed them where they’d be staying before getting down to business. They all assembled in the office of Jeor Mormont, the Lord Commander of the Night Watch, for the meeting. When Jon glanced down at Ghost, he saw his wolf’s eyes were blue. Bran was there too. 

Jon and Dany listened as the information was relayed. An army, hundreds, of these white walkers were headed south. They would be at the wall in a matter of days at this point. Fire seemed to be the only thing that could kill them if hot enough and if it burned long enough. Blades were useless.

“It would be best then for just my dragons and I to go,” Dany commented. “Ground troops would be pointless.” Jeor Mormont frowned but begrudgingly agreed with her point. Ghost gave a low growl of annoyance and so did Nymeria, but neither wolf interrupted more than that. Neither of the wolves would be going. It just wasn’t feasible.

“I want to go!” Arya argued at the same time Jon said: “You shouldn’t go alone.”

Dany blinked at them. She chuckled a little and Arya and Jon glanced at one another, sharing an easy smile. Jon had missed Arya terribly. It was nice to see she hadn’t changed; always one to run straight into danger.

“The three of us then,” Dany waved a hand. “And my three dragons.”

Arya’s eyes lit up in excitement. Jon knew immediately that she was thinking they would be riding the dragons, whether that would happen or not was debatable, but he didn’t burst her excitement just yet. After all, the way Dany was looking at him made him think maybe he would be riding a dragon in the near future.

The snow crunched under their feet as they went back out into the cold. Arya approached the dragons, all three of which were crowded together near the stables. The creatures were far too big to fit in the stables, so they lay alongside the building. Those members of the Night Watch that were outside gave the beasts a large berth and avoided looking at them. Ghost, whose eyes were still blue, and Nymeria stopped at about the halfway mark in the courtyard and watched warily.

Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion watched Arya with intelligent watchful eyes. Arya approached Viserion slowly, keeping her hands visible she came to a stop a couple yards away. Her eyes were still bright with wonder as she looked at them. The sheer heat they put off melted the snow around them, causing swirls of steam. 

Dany went to Drogon first, running a hand down its neck and whispering something to it that Jon couldn’t hear. Then she went to Viserion and stroked its neck until it lowered its head so she could touch its snout. Viseron blew out a breath and Jon felt the surge of warm air.

Arya took a step closer. Viserion growled low and menacing freezing Arya in place. Behind them, Jon heard Nymeria give a snarl and glancing back he saw she was crouched low and had her teeth bared. But then Dany whispered something to the dragon, and Jon recognized then that she was speaking in a different language. Her words calmed Viserion visibly and Dany gestured for Arya to come forward. Nymeria gave a snort from behind them but seemed to settle down.

“Usually, to ride a dragon, one has to form a bond with the dragon.” Dany told them, still stroking Viserion’s head. With her unoccupied hand, Dany took Arya’s hand when she’d stepped close enough and placed her hand on the dragon’s snout. “That’s why it was custom for Targaryen’s to have unhatched dragon eggs placed in their baby’s cribs, to help foster that bonding process.”

Arya shot Jon an uneasy look. He knew she was thinking the same thing he was, that it was impossible to form a bond with a dragon that quickly or easily. Dany didn’t seem to notice their shared expression, or she chose to ignore it.

“That’s part of the reason there was so much inter-marriage in the Targaryen line.” Dany commented, “To keep the blood pure enough, so we could bond with our dragons.”

Standing there, petting her dragon, pale hair whipping in the breeze and violet eyes soft yet sharp, Jon couldn’t help thinking she looked beautiful. He mentally shook himself and reminded himself that there would be time for courting after the war, after everything.

“But bonding is not the only way to safely ride a dragon.” She continued, finally removing her own hand from Viserion while leaving Arya’s hand in place. “Dragons have been known to accept another rider as a passenger.”

“You’ve bonded with all three of them?” Arya asked, her voice just a little strained. Jon could see her hand was tense against the dragon’s snout. Viserion could tell too and it growled low again. Arya withdrew her hand quickly and took several steps back. She didn’t look scared though, she just didn’t want to accidentally lose a hand.

“I have bonds with each of them,” Dany said slowly, “I am their mother, after all. But I’m not bonded to all three.” She admitted. She went to Drogon who lowered its head and nuzzled her hand before she even finished reaching out to it. “I have ridden Drogon.”

“But not the others?” Jon asked, wondering why. Dany answered his unspoken question with a shrug of her shoulders.

“No rider has ever been bonded to more than one dragon at a time.” She answered and Jon thought there was something sad in the way she said it.

“We’ll be riding with you then?” Arya asked, her voice giving away just how excited she was to fly.

“That would be safest,” Dany said with a smile. “But you could certainly try your luck if you wish.” Her smile turned toothy.

Jon looked at Rhaegal. The beast was huge and imposing but Jon met its gaze. Too late he thought perhaps it was best not to meet a dragon’s eyes, but the intelligence Jon saw there froze him in place. He’d been around Dany’s dragon’s before. They seemed to tolerate him much more than other strangers. Jon figured it had to do with how Dany felt towards him. Her dragon’s must have picked up on it. It was the only explanation Jon had. Jon looked away.

“They’ve taken a liking to you,” Dany said, running her hand lightly along Rhaegal’s scales. “They don’t like many people.” Jon lifted his hand, then thought better of it. But before he could let it fall back to his side Dany reached out and caught his wrist. She placed his hand on Rhaegal’s neck.

When his hand met Rhaegal’s scales Jon felt something. A connection. Sharp and sudden. Jon’s head jerked back and he looked at Rhaegal, their eyes meeting. Jon couldn’t name what he felt. It was strange but not unpleasant. Dany noticed.

“What’s wrong?” She asked.

“Nothing,” Jon assured her, withdrawing his hand. The odd warmth and buzz beneath his palm remained though. “I’ve never touched a dragon before.”

Dany hummed in understanding. “They can be intimidating.” She agreed, but that wasn’t how Jon felt at all. Yes, Rhaegal was imposing, but...but there was something between them now.

“Viserion and Rhaegal will follow, you both can ride with me on Drogon.” Dany offered. It wouldn’t be pleasant probably, all three of them bunched up on Drogon, but Arya would certainly be riding with Dany.

“I’ll ride Rhaegal.” The words left Jon’s mouth surprising both him and Arya and Dany. “I mean…” He trailed off, not really knowing what it was that he meant after all. He bit his tongue. Dany’s eyes searched his face then glanced towards Rhaegal.

“But what if it throws you off!” Arya asked, placing her hands on her hips and giving him a look as though asking after his sanity.

“You felt something, didn’t you?” Dany murmured, quiet enough that only Jon heard. He knew immediately what she was asking. He hesitated only a moment before inclining his head just enough for her to take it as a nod. Dany’s eyes flashed and he knew they would be talking about this later.

“Rhaegal has gotten to know Jon fairly well,” Dany broke in, saving Jon from stammering out some kind of explanation to his sister. Jon was grateful because he had no idea what he could say. He himself hardly understood it. “I can convince Rhaegal to take Jon as a passenger.”

Arya frowned but accepted the explanation. Ghost’s gaze burned into Jon’s back, Bran’s blue eyes knowing somehow that there was more.

They decided they would leave at first light.

* * *

“Tell me.”

Jon wasn’t surprised when he opened his room door at the knock that had woken him in the early morning to see Dany standing there demanding answers. He was too tired and still a little groggy from sleep to answer, but he had enough sense to know they ought to have the conversation inside his room rather than the hallway.

Opening the door wider, Jon stepped aside and let Dany stride in. Ghost yawned from where he was curled up on the foot of the bed. Jon had barely shut the door when she whirled on him. Jon took a step back and found himself trapped between his door and the Dragon King. She gave him an expectant look.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Dany.” Jon admitted, running a hand through his black hair. She frowned and crossed her arms. She thought he was purposefully keeping something from her and he could see a flame of anger flickering to life. Jon groaned and threw his hands up. “I don’t know what happened!” He said again, but figured it was best to at least try to explain whatever it was that had happened. “I–I felt something when I touched Rhaegal, no, well, even before when our eyes met...I don’t know…”

“Felt what?” Dany asked, her voice was quiet and the anger was gone, replaced by a kind of nervous, maybe even hopeful, tone.

“A...connection? I don’t know, a spark, maybe?” Jon offered lamely. It was the best he could do though. Not even after reflecting on it could he put it into proper words.

“You…” Dany began slowly and sounded just a little disbelieving. “...bonded with Rhaegal?” Jon sucked in a sharp breath.

“No.” He said immediately, but it felt wrong to deny. Jon shook his head trying to clear this strange feeling but it wouldn’t leave. It held on like it had frozen inside him.

“How is that possible?” Dany murmured, not even entertaining his denial for even a moment. “Only Targaryen’s or those of Valyrian descent bond with dragons…” Jon opened his mouth to argue, to say something, but nothing came to mind to say that would change her mind.

Of course it could all be wrong, the stories passed down. Perhaps Targaryen’s were the only ones who had access to dragons and so were the only dragon riders. Perhaps anyone could be a dragon rider. That was the only explanation Jon could think of and Dany seemed to be thinking along the same lines. But could the stories really be  _ that _ wrong?

“I’ve spent...a lot of time with you,” Jon pointed out, voice thick as he tried to understand what was going on. “Maybe Rhaegal just picked up on how you…” He was going to say ‘feel about me’ but that felt too presumptuous on his part. Sure, Dany liked him, wanted to kiss him, and was willing to let him court her, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t just a passing fancy to her.

“How I feel about you?” Dany finished for him, her expression turned thoughtful. “I suppose...it’s possible,” She finally agreed. “As my child, Rhaegal might have started thinking of you as a father.”

Jon felt a heat begin to creep up his neck and into his face at her words. He coughed into his hand to try to hide it. Jon wasn’t one for blushing, but perhaps it had not been presumptuous on his part to believe they were headed for a permanent union. Still, while dragons seemed very intelligent, Jon wasn’t sure they were as intelligent as Dany suggested. But it was the only real answer they had. It was enough.

Dany caught his reaction though and her smile turned sly. “Are you northerns so prudish that even the mention of fatherhood causes a grown man to blush?” She teased taking a step forward so that Jon found himself pressed back against the door.

“Um…” Was the only intelligible response Jon’s brain could come up with for about a second. Pleasing his hands lightly on Dany’s shoulders, Jon stepped away from the door just enough that he no longer felt trapped. “Dany…”

“‘Um’” Dany repeated with a laugh, “How about,” She lowered her voice in a mockery of his own “‘everything about you makes a grown man blush?’” She arched a silvery brow and her mouth quirked up into an impish smile.

“Dany,” Jon began with a soft laugh. “You really are too much.” He smiled down at her and felt in that moment, as she teased him and treated him so familiarly, that they were family.

“Or just enough.” She replied tilting her head up. Jon took the invitation, pressing his lips to hers. In a few hours they would have to head beyond the wall, but for now they found comfort, companionship, and understanding in one another’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!


	27. Arya

“But why do _you_ have to go?” Gendry asked. His concern was obvious and he’d even started out by telling her he would go too, which of course was ridiculous. Arya scoffed at the notion again. Really she and Jon shouldn’t be going, but they weren’t about to let the King of bloody Dragons go beyond the wall alone.

“I _want_ to go.” Arya shot back. Gendry blinked and then his lips thinned, his expression turning into a scowl. Nymeria didn’t look pleased either. Her ears were flat and she overall had a ‘wet dog’ kind of look. Golden eyes watched Arya keenly.

“What did Yoren have to say about this?” He asked, gesturing towards her. Arya was almost ready to go, her armor and weapons in place. She knew she would just be on dragon back the whole time but it never hurt to be prepared.

They were outside, the dawn light just now kissing the snow covered ground. King Daenerys’ dragons were nearby, though both Arya and Gendry were on the opposite side of the yard from them. It never hurt to be cautious when the King wasn’t there to reign the beasts in.

“He hasn’t said anything to me about it.” Arya replied frostily. Gendry sucked in a breath and his face colored in frustration. She rolled her eyes. “It’s not a big deal, Gendry.”

“You’re going beyond the wall on dragon back to fight an army of whitewalkers!” Gendry cried, throwing his hands up. “Of course it’s a big deal!”

The crunch of boots on snow caught Arya’s attention and she turned expecting to see Jon or King Daenerys. But it wasn’t either of them. It was Yoren.

“Oh thank the gods!” Gendry grumbled, “Talk some sense into her Yoren, please!”

Arya gave Yoren a wary look. But he didn’t look angry, if anything he looked resigned. It wasn’t an expression she liked on him, but it was better than furious. Arya put her hands on her hips and held her ground, raising her chin just a little in defiance. Just in case he really was going to try to talk her out of going.

“Nothing I say is going to change her mind young Gendry,” Yoren said with a sigh. “You know that.” Beside her Gendry’s shoulders slumped. Arya grinned brightly in triumph. 

Yoren took the sword at his hip, scabbard and all and held it out. It was a longsword, a bastard sword from the looks of it.

“But since you are going,” Yoren continued. “I want you to take this,” He offered the blade to her. “Its name is Longclaw. It is made of Valyrian Steel.” He added as Arya tentatively took the blade. “There are stories about whitewalkers, others, and a weakness to Valyrian Steel. Don’t know if they’re true but,” He shrugged. “It could prove useful to you.”

“You’re...giving this to me?” Arya asked, eyes wide in wonderment. Valyrian Steel was rare, and not something to be given lightly. It would be crazy to give away something so valuable, especially to someone not even in his own family. But Yoren snorted at her question.

“Something that priceless?” Yoren shook his head. “No. It was entrusted to me by the Lord Commander himself. It’s not mine to give.” Arya frowned, her brow creasing in puzzlement. “But it is mine to lend.” Yoren smiled and Arya grinned back.

“I’ll bring it back safely.” Arya promised him. “Safe and sound.”

“See that you do.” He said softly, ruffling her hair. There was sadness in his dark eyes, fear too. He was worried about her. Arya felt a little warm inside at the knowledge.

Yoren waved goodbye and headed back inside to tend to his duties. He gave her a meaningful look though, one that told her she’d better come back alive. Arya just smiled back. Gendry heaved a long sigh.

“Oh, what?” Arya snapped, his defeated depressed atmosphere was starting to irritate her. But when she turned to look at him her words caught in her throat. “Wh–what are you looking at me like that for?!”

“Arya,” Gendry began, and his voice was small and gentle and odd.

Arya wasn’t sure why but she felt compelled to sweep her gaze around the yard just to make sure they were alone. She made sure Nymeria’s eyes were still golden too before she met Gendry’s gaze again.

“You’re my best friend…” He continued and his eyes fell to his feet. He shuffled a little and Arya could feel just how uncomfortable he was. It didn’t seem fair to let him continue to feel so nervous, so Arya took his hand in both of hers and gave his hand a comforting squeeze.

“You’re my best friend too,” Arya told him. It was true too. Family, of course, were more than just friends, so really, Gendry was her only friend. But she liked him, felt comfortable with him. He was almost like family. Arya halted that line of thinking immediately. Her words seemed to give him some courage though.

“Please be careful,” Gendry said softly, his eyes filled with something Arya didn’t dare name.

“I will.” She promised her voice thick. He chewed his lip and Arya had the sudden thought that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to kiss her. She knew they were both still young, and she was a noble born and he a bastard, but still she found herself kind of hoping that he would.

“Good.” Gendry finally said taking a breath and stepping back. Arya blinked. Really? That was it? He wasn’t even going to try? He pulled his hand back and she saw the color in his cheeks was darker than normal, the pink wasn’t just from the cold.

Arya glowered. “That’s it?” She asked, tone clipped.

“Huh?” Gendry blinked, seemingly shocked by her sudden mood change.

Arya blew out a sigh before she grabbed a fist full of his shirt and crashed their lips together. It was awkward and strange and Arya wasn’t even sure she really liked it. But when she pulled back and saw the bemused expression on Gendry’s face and the crimson flush all the way to his hairline, well, Arya decided she would definitely do it again some time.

“Wh–wh–wh–” Gendry stammered, not even getting a full word out. Arya rolled her eyes.

“I’ll be back.” She declared. Her pride didn’t let her acknowledge that her own face felt hotter than the sun. “So be ready.” Arya pointed a finger at him, clearly a challenge. Gendry stammered again and Arya couldn’t help but laugh.

* * *

Arya gulped and tried not to look down. Drogon’s body was hot beneath her, even through the leather saddle. Her grip on Daenerys’ waist tightened just a little. Glancing to the side, Arya caught sight of Jon not too far off. She couldn’t see him very well, but she knew it was her brother who was riding Rhaegal. Viserion followed along behind them, trailing Drogon.

It was freezing, and not just because of the altitude. The further north they flew the colder it got. Arya was actually grateful for Drogon’s immense body heat. Daenerys had told Arya not to look down, but she herself was scouring the trees and snow covered wasteland that was the far north looking for any sign of the whitewalkers. Arya bet Jon was doing the same.

Arya heard Daenerys take in a sharp breath. She couldn’t help but look down, to see what had caused such a reaction. Arya’s own breath caught and her eyes widened. Not too far ahead of them was a veritable army of whitewalkers.

Daenerys hissed something to Drogon in that weird Essos language she sometimes spoke and Drogon dipped down. Wind whipped by them until they were closer, then Drogon opened its mouth and roared.

A column of flame burst from the dragon’s mouth following its warcry. Arya held on tight and Drogon burned long scars into the ground, melting the ice and fusing the stone and earth together with the sheer heat. Not too far away, the other two dragons were doing the same.

Arya grinned. Everything looked like it was going really well. It irritated her only a bit that she was mainly just sitting there on dragonback watching it all rather than helping. The most help she could offer was in looking out over the battlefield. Looking down from the height sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the cold, but she did it anyway.

Her eyes scanned the battlefield below them. Actually, it was more than just a barren wasteland, though that was how it appeared. But there, Arya squinted through the wind and cold, she saw it. A castle, a keep, a kingdom. Her lips parted in surprise. It was hard to see in the near blizzard like conditions, but she saw it.

Arya squinted more and leaned towards it, though she kept a firm grip on Daenerys waist. There, along the wall of the kingdom she saw a figure, more than a figure though, a ballista too. In fact, Arya’s eyes widened as she saw there were at least three huge icy ballistas along the entirety of the huge ice wall.

The figure, that could only be another whitewalker, was at one of the ballistas. As Drogon made another pass over the field, leaving molted rock in its wake, Arya got a better look at the whitewalker.

The whitewalker was different from the rest of the ones that formed the huge army below them. In fact, it almost looked like he was wearing a crown of ice, or just had ice spikes coming out of his head. Well, he wouldn’t be king of the whitewalkers for long, Arya thought with a smirk.

Her smile died on her lips when she saw he’d armed the ballista with some kind of icy glowing blue spear. He was aiming for Viserion, who was hovering, roaring and spewing fire down along the far edge of the field.

Arya didn’t know if that icy spear could do anything to a dragon, she didn’t even know if the ballista could shoot that far, but she decided she didn’t want to find out the answer to either of those questions. Quickly, she tugged on Daenerys arm, getting her attention.

“Call Viserion!” Arya called urgently. Daenery’s had turned her head just enough to look back at Arya. While Arya saw a question in her violet eyes. Arya pointed at the whitewalker king. “Now!” Daenerys’s eyes widened when she saw the creature on the wall with the ballista. Immediately, she hissed something to Drogon in that other language and Drogon roared loud and harshly.

Just as the spear shot through the air, Viserion surged upwards beyond the clouds. The spear almost clipped the dragon’s tail, but missed by maybe only a hair. Arya let out a shuddering sigh, even as she felt Daenerys’ whole body tense.

Daenerys’ jaw was set and there was fury in her eyes as she turned Drogon on the whitewalker kind. With a single snap of a word to Drogon the great dragon reared back and bathed the icy wall and the whitewalker king in fire. 

Steam burst into the air as the flames struck the ice, obscuring their view. When Drogon’s flames died and the steam cleared Arya saw the icy wall had a huge indent in it. Not as big as what she would have expected, but Drogon had certainly done some damage. 

Arya’s eyes widened and she gapped, not fully believing what she was seeing. The whitewalker still stood. Drogon’s fire hadn’t done anything beyond destroying the icy ground around him. Longclaw suddenly felt very heavy at Arya’s side. Gritting her teeth, Arya shouted to Daenerys.

“Get me close to him!” She pointed at the whitewalker, the one flames couldn’t seem to kill, the whitewalker king.

“What?” Daenerys questioned. She’d heard her, Arya knew, but she didn’t know what Arya planned on doing.

“I have a plan!” Arya shouted back over the torrent of wind as Drogon swung around again. The problem was the king of the whitewalkers was moving to a new ballista. “Now!” She snapped, “Or do you want to lose one of your dragons?!”

Daenerys hissed something that sounded like ‘Jon’s going to kill me if you die’ but she gave a short nod before urging Drogon back around. They flew lower and slowed in speed as they approached the icy wall of the whitewalkers kingdom. The whitewalker king had just gotten to the ballista and was aiming for Drogon.

Arya moved so she was crouching in the saddle. The moment they passed by, the moment the whitewalker king let the bolt fly, and the moment Daenerys forced Drogon to roll to the side to dodge, Arya lept from the saddle.

She crashed into the whitewalker king, throwing them both to the icy ground. Arya hadn’t accounted for the ice as well as she should have. Her whole body was thrown into a slide even as her gloved hands scrambled to find purchase. Finally she came to a stop, her feet dangling over the edge of the wall.

Quickly and carefully, Arya got to her feet and drew Longclaw. The whitewalker king hadn’t had nearly as much trouble, actually no trouble at all, getting back to his feet and drawing his own icy blade. His blue eyes glowed unsettlingly.

Arya bared her teeth in a snarl and clutched the sword’s grip with both hands. It was too large for her really, unwieldy. But if the stories were true, then maybe it was their only hope in killing this creature of winter. 

Careful in her steps, Arya moved back and away from the edge of the ice wall. She didn’t want to fall or slide over the edge. Her eyes darted around, taking in her surroundings. Arya felt her heart almost stop when she saw that down on the other side of the icy wall, where she’d almost fallen, were more whitewalkers. They looked different than the ones out on the field somehow, though Arya couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. At the same time, those inside the kingdom weren’t moving, but standing, watching, waiting. Arya swallowed and focused her gaze back on the enemy in front of her.

Arya lunged, swinging Longclaw in a tight swift arch. The whitewalker met her blade with his own. The steel clashed with the icy blade sending off shards of ice where they met. Glowing blue eyes narrowed and Aray narrowed hers in response as well.

She tried a feint and almost caught the whitewalker king’s side, but he was a decent swordsman. It made Arya wonder about the creature’s intelligence, about what they wanted and why they were heading south. But their plans weren’t something she would let herself be concerned with right then.

Their blades met again and again and each time Arya noticed the icy blade was chipped away at just a little. The Valyrian Steel seemed to make the other’s blade more brittle with every strike. Her opponent realized this as well.

Arya tried to make each strike hit the whitewalkers blade in the same place each time until finally, the blade snapped. She grinned in triumph only to realize that while she’d been planning on breaking his sword, the whitewalker had a plan of his own. Longclaw wasn’t angled in a way for Arya to continue a fluid strike against the whitewalker, but he was in a perfect position for what he did next.

His hand shot out and grasped her upper arm. A scream ripped from Arya’s throat and was torn by the howling icy wind as her upper arm literally froze. It was so cold her arm burned even as her hand spasmed. Arya realized in horror that she couldn’t move her finger on her left hand hand.

Arya tried to wrench herself away from him, but he was so strong. The best she could do was put about an arms length of distance between them even as she thrashed. Longclaw had fallen, still gripped in her right hand, but too heavy for her to use with only one arm.

“ARYA!”

Her attention snapped to the sky. Jon astride Rhaegal was diving towards them and with a breath, the dragon spewed flames in a single straight shot into the whitewalker king.

The flames did nothing to the whitewalker king himself, but it melted some of the icy ground of the wall under him, making him lose his footing. It gave Arya enough of a chance to swing Longclaw in an uncoordinated arc that slapped into the creature’s arm though.

As soon as Longclaw touched the whitewalkers arm there was a harsh crackling sound like ice being broken. The whitewalker king released his grip on Arya and jerked back. Arya fell, skidding on the ice and clutching her left arm. Longclaw clattered to the ground next to her.

Even through her glove all Arya could feel was icy cold, as though her upper arm had been turned into a block of ice. She imagined her whole arm and hand turning blue, but pushed the image from her mind. Arya ignored the soft pained sounds that were escaping her lips without her permission.

Jon was making another pass, Rhaegal’s roar was like angry thunder crashing from the sky followed by hellflames. Arya had to turn away from the sheer heat and brightness of the fire. Longclaw glinted on the ground next to her.

The whitewalker king was now focused on Rhaegal and Jon. The dragon continued to shoot fire and blow torrents of freezing wind with its massive wings as it circled. The whitewalker king looked towards the ballista. He took his eyes off of Arya.

Arya moved into a crouch. Grasping the sword with her right hand she forced the grip into her numb left hand. She used her right hand to force her left hand closed around the hilt, before grasping it with her right hand as well.

Frozen as her left arm was, it could still bear weight, and that was all Arya needed right then. Longclaw was angled upwards towards the whitewalker king. Arya launched herself forward, keeping her aim straight and throwing all of her weight behind the strike.

Longclaw sliced through the wind and snow. The blade slammed into the whitewalker king’s back, entering his body as easily as a sheath. Arya hardly breathed as she watched. The whitewalker king froze in place, his whole body cracking and turning to pure ice from where the blade entered his back and flowing outward.

In a matter of seconds the whitewalker king’s whole body was brittle icy. Arya pulled Longclaw back and out. The sword clattered to the ground just as the frozen whitewalker crumbled and shattered. Arya flinched back as ice shards as sharp as needles shot past her.

Arya felt the ice hit her, shredding parts of her clothes and leaving cuts all across her face. She stumbled and fell, her breath was knocked from her and she slid on the ice again before coming to a stop. With a groan, Arya lay her head back on the cold ground for only a moment before remembering all the other whitewalkers she’d seen.

Sitting up she looked out over into the icy kingdom, but the whitewalkers were still just standing there, still waiting, blue eyes fixed on her unnervingly. Arya shivered and moved away from the edge. She pulled herself over towards the ballista and leaned her back against it. The entire thing was made of ice and it was cold against her back, but she preferred sitting up to laying flat on her back.

Off to the side of her was the battlefield, fire burning even in the wintery scape. Looking up she saw the dark clouds. With the flash of fire from below, Arya saw the shadow of the dragons in behind the clouds. She let out a long breath, grasping at her left forearm. All feeling had left it and her left hand felt like it was on pins and needles, but she could feel that numbness starting to take over completely. Soon she probably wouldn’t be able to feel anything at all.

“Arya!” Jon’s voice cut through the whipping wind and Arya looked over to see Rhaegal landing on the ice wall several yards away. The dragon’s talons bit into the ice making a harsh crunching sound. Then Jon was leaping from Rhaegal’s back. He slipped a bit on the ice, but kept his footing, carefully running over towards her. “Arya.” He said her name again, his hands cupping her face, turning it side to side checking her visible injuries before looking over the rest of her.

“I’m fine,” Arya told him, trying to sound annoyed but instead she just sounded exhausted. Her teeth chattered too when she spoke.

Jon frowned, but carefully got his arms around her before lifting her up. She squeaked and felt a little indignant about being carried, but she didn’t have much fight left in her.

“The sword!” She cried, making sure Jon got Longclaw before he took her over to Rhaegal. She wondered whether it was safe for her to ride on Rhaegal at all, but when Jon placed her on the dragon’s warm back Arya didn’t care. She wrapped her arms around the beast’s neck and let the dragon’s heat warm her. She felt Jon get on behind her before urging Rhaegal to take flight.

After that, Arya wasn’t sure what happened. She felt both frozen to the bone and also so warm. Fire and ice ran through her as she fell to darkness.

* * *

When Arya awoke she was back in Castle Black. If they were back then everything must have gone well. She wondered if either Jon or Daenerys had seen the other army. The one that waited in the icy kingdom. Jon hadn’t seemed to notice when he’d gotten her from the icy wall of the whitewalker’s kingdom though.

Glancing over, she saw Jon asleep in the chair next to her bed. Nymeria was curled up at the foot of her bed while Ghost lay at Jon’s feet. Soft sunlight filtered through the glass of the window. Arya wondered how long she’d been out for, and why. She hadn't thought she’d sustained much of an injury.

She let out a groan as she tried to sit up. Her left arm felt heavy. When she looked at her her breath caught. There was a tight wrapping around her upper arm, right above where the whitewalker king had touched her, below that, her entire arm and hand were blue.

Arya reached out and lightly touched her left hand. She didn’t feel anything in her left hand and her right hand jerked away from the frozen temperature of her left hand. Panic welled up in her and she had to remind herself to take deep calming breaths. Arya squeezed her eyes shut, ignoring the pressure building up behind her eyes, a pressure she wasn’t quite familiar with but had a little experience with.

Jon stirred a little and Arya blinked away the water in her eyes just as he finally woke up. “You’re awake!” He said with a smile. He reached out and ran a hand through her hair, his thumb rubbing her cheek. It was difficult to bat hsi hand away with her right when he was seated on her left, but she managed. Nymeria lifted her head and Arya saw her eyes were blue.

“I’m fine,” She told both of them, but couldn’t find the strength to sound angry. Nymeria crawled further up the bed and bucked her head against Arya’s right hand. She ruffled her wolf’s ears, and decided she would definitely tease Bran about this later. “Um…” Arya looked down at her left arm. “My…”

“Your arm,” Jon said for her and nodded grimly. “It’s...We don’t know if it’ll get better. Truthfully no one knows why it’s like that…”

“I…” Arya felt that swell of panic again before beating it down. “I can’t move it.” She bit out, reminding herself that Bran had lost his legs and he hadn’t broken down crying or anything. She could still hold a sword in her right hand as long as it wasn’t too heavy. She could still fight.

Bran’s blue eyes held a look of sympathy and sorrow that came across even through Nymeria’s face. Jon’s expression was regretful and she hoped he knew her injury wasn’t his fault.

“I’ll learn to live with it.” Arya said with a shrug, her voice just a little strained. “Choices have consequences, and I have to live with mine, right?” Then she cleared her throat, noting Jon’s concerned expression. Arya decided it was best to move on to a different topic. “What happened?” She asked.

“You’ve been out of it for a few days.” Jon told her seriously. “All the whitewalkers on the field were burned, and there have been no more sightings, no more advancement of them since.” Arya bit her lip.

“I think there’s more…” She said, certain there were but not certain they were an immediate threat, at least, not anymore.

“Maybe,” Jon murmured noncommittally. “But Dany’s heading south now.” Arya blinked.

“She hasn’t left yet?” She asked, surprised. Jon hesitated a little before finally answering.

“I didn’t want to leave before you’d woken up,” He admitted, which still didn’t explain why the King was still there, in Arya’s opinion anyway. But he continued, “And she...she wants me to go with her, to King’s Landing.”

“Huh?” Arya gave him a puzzled look. Why would Daenerys care about that?

“And I want to go too,” Jon said. “I need to go really,” He told her. “When Dany gets to King’s Landing in all likelihood Robb will already be there.”

Arya nodded in understanding. Jon would need to act as a buffer and it would probably do good for Robb and Jon to see each other. They’d never been apart this long before, or really at all that Arya could think of.

She caught sight of Longclaw leaning against the wall. Arya tilted her head in confusion. Jon’s eyes followed her gaze and he gave her a soft smile.

“Yoren said you promised to return it to him,” Jon answered her unspoken question. “He said he’d wait for you to return it to him yourself. He wouldn’t accept it from me.”

Arya snorted and shook her head. What a ridiculous notion. But she smiled all the same.

There was a light knock at the door and when it opened Gendry stepped in. His mouth was open as though to ask Jon something but then he saw Arya. He saw she was awake.

“Arya!” He cried and she could tell he was just barely keeping himself from throwing his arms around her.

“Hey,” She greeted, trying to sound cool but her fondness for him shone through.

“I’ll go get you something to eat,” Jon offered, shooting Arya a meaningful look before heading out of the room.

Arya sighed and held her right arm open. Gendry blinked and Arya gave him an expectant look. Then he did pull her into a tight hug. His soft whispers of how happy he was she was okay warmed her heart more than the dragon’s hide had.

And all at once it hit her. All the emotions she’d bottle up for so long. The panic she thought she’d squashed flat. It all broke loose in a torrent of emotions. Arya cried. Her tears soaking Gendry’s shirt. She cried for everything that had happened. Her father’s death, her constant feelings of impotence, and for the loss of her arm and hand. A sob escaped her and just hearing the sound made Arya’s face flush in embarrassment. 

But Gendry didn’t tell her not to cry, he didn’t wince or turn away from her. Instead he held her, his arms strong and comforting as he lightly stroked her hair and whispered words she couldn’t bring herself to understand.

* * *

Jon and Daenerys left the following day. Arya stayed behind at Castle Black to recover a little more before heading back to Winterfell. Arya shared one last hug with Jon before he left with the King of Dragons. She knew they would find Robb and Sansa, and she knew she would see them again at Winterfell. But for now she felt her place was at the Wall. Just for now.


	28. Sansa

The Hound had arrived. Sansa was stunned when she heard it. He’d been caught near the outskirts of King’s Landing. He was being brought before the king. It took only a moment before a smile slid into place. She schooled her features quickly, but the hope and happiness she felt inside couldn’t be quelled.

Robb was here. That was the best explanation. And he’d sent her a message in the form of the Hound. She knew Sandor well enough that she knew he wouldn’t have stayed near King’s Landing, not without a reason. He’d told her he would go to Robb and she trusted that he would. So if he was here now then Sansa couldn’t help but believe it meant he’d found Robb and brought him here.

King’s Landing was fortified though. It had a wall. Robb would have to either siege the city or find a way to break through or go over the walls. Or...or he’d need someone on the inside to open the city gates and keep them open long enough to get his soldiers in. That was where Sansa would come in.

When the Hound was brought before the king, who yelled and screamed at him for his disloyalty before sentencing him to death come sunrise, his dark eyes shifted to Sansa. His gaze held so much meaning. If Robb took the city that night or before sunrise the Hound would be saved and so would Sansa. Right. She could do this.

Sansa wanted more information though. How close was Robb? Would he be prepared at a specific time or at a moment’s notice? What she needed, she realized, was to speak with the Hound.

The problem was figuring out how to sneak down to the dungeon without being seen. It just didn’t seem likely that she would be able to. But Sansa didn’t think about it too long before she was approached by Varys.

Varys had never hurt her and he was friendly with her husband, but Sansa was still wary to trust him. Still, when he asked to speak with her she decided it was worth at least hearing whatever he had to say. It seemed he too did not believe the Hound had been simply captured. But that wasn’t what he started off with.

“There were ships seen coming from Essos not long ago.” Varys told her quietly. Sansa arched a brow, unsure what this had to do with anything she cared about. “Ships headed for the Iron Isles.” 

Sansa bristled ever so slightly. That was part of the North. Had Cersei sent ships in secret? Was her home being invaded while Robb campaigned in the South?

“I’ve heard tell that the last Targaryen has appeared.”

Sansa’s eyes snapped to Varys’. She wasn’t sure what to think about that. Of course she had some vague knowledge that two Targaryen’s had escaped to Essos after Robert’s Rebellion, but it hadn’t seemed important enough information to keep informed about. But if a Targaryen heir had come over to Westeros in a bid for the Iron throne, well, it could be very good or very bad. 

The Targaryen might join with Robb since their goals were compatible. Robb didn’t want the Iron Throne, of that Sansa was sure. But the Targaryen might not even meet with Robb. Instead, they might think Robb was going after the Iron Throne and aim to kill him without even speaking with him. Killing Robb wouldn’t be an easy feat though.

“They say dragons have once again appeared.” Varys added softly, eyes glistening. 

Sansa sucked in a breath. Robb was a good fighter, but Sansa had a hard time believing even he could stand up against a dragon. She bit her lip and thought. Would the North be burned to ash before she was even free? At this rate the possibilities were too great. She cursed under her breath, before reminding herself that, right now, that wasn’t important.

“And?” Sansa asked, trying to keep her voice even despite the swirling questions in her mind. “Why are you telling me this?” Varys gave her a sly look. “I merely the wife of a Lannister, I hold no power in court, I see no reason why–”

“We both know the Hound was not captured.” Varys cut in, eyes searching. Sansa gave nothing away. But she didn’t need to. “The King in the North is close. Ready to attack no doubt, and the Hound, well, he is not more than a signal.” His eyes narrowed even as Sansa forced herself to keep the tension she felt out of her body. “A signal to you.”

Silence stretched between then for a long moment before Sansa scoffed and laughed. “I don’t know what you mean.” She could tell though, that he would believe what he wanted regardless of what she said. But she wasn’t about to give him any ammunition to use against her. But Varys surprised her.

“Sansa Stark,” He began and she startled hearing her family name. She was normally referred to as Lady Lannister since her marriage. “I brought you to speak with your father when he was held prisoner, I tried to help you as best I could, I am not your enemy.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed in response. What he said wasn’t wrong, but she still didn’t trust him. Varys sighed, already knowing her thoughts somehow.

“Don’t trust me, Sansa. It’s smart to trust few people.” Varys began. “But trust this: my goal has only ever been to put a Targaryen back on the throne and I am willing to bet the the King in the North wishes only for revenge, the reclamation of his sister, and then to return to the North.”

Sansa’s lips parted in shock. Varys had just admitted to treason against the king. He’d given her ammunition against him. He’d done it purposefully. An offering. A way she could feel comfortable trusting him even if just a little. Their goals were compatible. At last, she recovered.

“Alright,” Sansa said. “I’ll trust that.” Her mouth quirked up in something more akin to a smirk than a smile. Varys shared her expression. “Can you take me to see the Hound?”

“Of course, my Lady.”

* * *

The Hound looked the same. No, not exactly. There was something different about him. The dark shroud that used to follow him and the permanent scowl on his face was softer, almost gone. He looked better. Sansa was glad to see him. He had helped her after all, been kind to her.

“Hello,” Sansa greeted him quietly. He looked from where he sat on the cot and Sansa pulled her hood down to her shoulders. She smiled. He didn’t smile back.

“You got married.” He grunted. Sansa blinked.

“I, yes, I did.” She answered, still a little surprised at the turn of the conversation.

“To a Lannister.” He spat. Sansa’s brow creased and she frowned.

“It wasn’t by choice,” Sansa said softly, yet she couldn’t find it in herself to feel unhappy about it. Maybe it wasn’t what she would have chosen, but she was happy how it had all turned out. The Hound’s dark eyes searched her face.

“You don’t regret it,” He murmured, sounding both sad and angry. He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Accept that little imp so easily....” His words were so soft Sansa didn’t really hear them, but she watched his lips. They were hard to read because of his burns, but she managed to understand just a bit. “Would you have accepted even someone like me…?”

Sansa averted her gaze. She knew he hadn’t meant for her to hear or know. He deserved to keep his feelings private if he wanted to. She cleared her throat.

“Is Robb…?” She began, but wasn’t quite sure what to ask first. But now that she was getting down to business the Hound seemed to straighten and come back to himself.

“He’s close.” The Hound confirmed Sansa’s assumption. “Three hours before dawn.” He said. “That’s when you need to open the gate.”

“Thats’...that’s soon…” Sansa murmured. Her heart began to speed up as she realized this was it. Everything would happen so quickly now. “I–I need to go.” She told him. He nodded. “I’ll come back and let you out as soon as I can.”

He snorted, but then said, quite softly, “See that you do little dove.”

Sansa nodded, gave him a determined smile and fled from the dungeon. She needed to get to the walls, to the gates. She didn’t have long and she certainly didn’t have the kind of standing needed to go wherever she wished without being questioned. She headed back to her rooms first. It was on the way in any case.

The moment she entered her rooms her heart almost stopped. Tyrion was there, fully dressed and looking anxious.

“There you are!” Tyrion went to her quickly, his brow marred by a crease of concern. “I woke up and you were gone, I was going to go look for you and…” He trailed off, seeing something in her expression. “What’s going on?” Tyrion asked her, mismatched eyes searching her face. 

Sansa bit her lip, her mind racing. Should she tell Tyrion? Her husband? Would he help her or turn her in? She knew he loved her, cared for her, but would he see Robb’s attack as being more detrimental to King’s Landing as a whole and so act for the greater good?

She wanted to trust him. He had once told her he hoped she would trust him. Her mother had trusted him, did trust him. After all, she’d let him go, released him freely from Witnerfell. That was enough for Sansa.

“Robb’s here.” Sansa told him quietly. Tyrion’s eyes widened a fraction before his brow furrowed and his expression turned thoughtful. Sansa couldn’t help the small grin as she watched him piece through the logic of the Hound’s ‘capture’ just as she had not too long ago. “I’m going to let him into the city.” She said, jerking Tyrion out of his thoughts. “Will you help me?”

“When?” Tyrion gaped, “How…?”

“Three hours from dawn I need to get the city gates open.” She told him quickly and quietly. “Tyrion…”

He looked like he was thinking. “I’ll do it.” He told her firmly, surprising her.

“What?” Sansa blinked. This was her job, her purpose. She thought Tyrion might not stop her but she hadn’t expected him to outright help. Surely he knew what it would mean if Robb successfully took the city.

“I’ve walked the walls and main gate many times. It won’t be unusual for me to be there or to order it open. You, on the other hand, my dear, would stick out like a sore thumb. You’d draw too much attention. Besides, I can get the guards to open the gate, I’m sure I can.”

“How?” Sansa asked lightly, a feeling of anxiety coiling in her gut. It was strange that she’d felt no fear or worry when it was her own life on the line but now that Tyrion was planning on taking over this dangerous part of the plan she couldn’t help feeling anxious.

“ I’ll—I’ll think of something.” Tyrion said, shrugging. It didn’t make her feel reassured. But at the same time, Tyrion seemed very sure. “Let me do this, Sansa. Let me help.” He took her hands in his and gave them a light comforting squeeze.

Sansa searched his face, worried and anxious and ready for it all to be over. She nodded at last and he smiled. That more than anything was enough. Sansa knelt down and pressed her lips against his in a hard kiss. Part of her knew that should they fail, or even if they succeeded, they might not make it out alive.

“I love you.” She told him when she pulled away.

“Of course you do,” He said, giving her a lopsided grin. “What’s not to love?”

* * *

Sansa watched from the keep. She kept her eyes trained on the main gate. Or, where the main gate was. The lack of light and the distance made seeing whether the gate was open or closed impossible. 

Waiting was fraying her nerves. The anticipation made her skin scrawl. Tyrion had left a while ago and the time of the attack was close approaching. She bit her lip, hoping she’d made the right decision in entrusting this to Tyrion.

She shook her head. He was her family, a Stark though not in name. Everything would be fine. And if it wasn’t, well, she could survive the winter, no matter how cold or violent it was. But she wanted to do more than just survive. Her mouth twisted as her stomach knotted.

Despite all her nerves though, the moment her ears picked up the sound of swords, the sounds of fighting a calm shrouded her, smoothing out her emotions until there was only determination left. Sansa wasted no time. Well, no more time. 

Tyrion had come through she was sure of it. Any doubt she still carried vanished when the bells began to ring and there were shouts of ‘their in the castle!’ and ‘the Lion Slayer!” Sansa smirked, she was sure Robb enjoyed that little nickname.

Quickly and silently, Sansa headed back towards the dungeon. She had promised the Hound that she would go back for him and she would keep her word. Besides, he could help in the fight.

The guards ignored her as they hurried to go help with defending the castle. The few that paid her any mind simply ordered her back to her chambers, but didn’t stick around to make sure she followed their commands.

“What the hell do you mean the gates were opened?!” 

Sansa stopped in her tracks at the sound of Cersei’s voice. It was reflex that her hand moved to her belt to feel for the weapon her mother had given her, the long thin metal knife that resembled a letter opener. It hid easily in the folds of her dress.

Cersei barked orders and snapped angrily at the guards before she ordered them to go, to kill the ‘northern bastard’ but more importantly find the king and bring her son to her. She kept several guards with her before going into the solar she was nearest. Sansa saw her hands shaking. She was terrified. Good.

Sansa noted the room Cersei had gone in, a plan already forming in her mind. Even as she hurried back down to the dungeon, stopping only at the guard station to look through the different sets of keys for the right one before just grabbing the entire thing. It struck her as odd that there wasn’t a guard there, but then she had a feeling Varys had something to do with it.

Hurrying to the Hounds cell, he was already standing, looking alert and ready to fight. Sansa blinked. The Hound had a sword. He noticed her gaze.

“Eunuch brought it,” He grunted, hefting the light blade in his large hands. “Not my preferred weight or type, but it’ll do.” Her lips quirked up in a smirk. She’d been right about Varys getting here first. He’d probably visited the Hound, slipped him the weapon and then chatted up the guard and convinced him to go somewhere.

Sansa got to work fitting the keys into the lock until she found the right one and the cell clicked open. She left the keys in the lock, it wasn’t as though it mattered.

“Where to, girly?” The Hound asked, his voice deep but resonating with a kind of excitement that only battle could bring.

“How would you like to visit the queen?” Sansa suggested, a feeling of dark satisfaction flowing through her at the thought. One that could only be surpassed by taking revenge on Jeoffry.

“Sounds lovely,” He grinned toothily.

That was all the answer Sansa needed before she beckoned him to follow and she led them out of the dungeon. Sansa had a feeling Cersei would probably stay in one place during the attack, or at least until an opportunity to escape presented itself.

The solar Sansa had seen Cersei go into was out of the way and not somewhere the queen would usually be found. But it was a good place to hide. It wasn’t somewhere like the throne room where she would be expected to be.

Sansa put a finger to her lips and nodded towards the door. The Hound gave a soft snort, shaking his head just a little before studying forward towards the closed door. It was probably locked and Sansa opened her mouth to hiss for the Hound to wait. But she didn’t need to. It didn’t matter that the door was locked. Not the Hound.

The Hound kicked the door in, splitting the wood and ripping the hinges out of the wall. With a crash the door fell forward. The group of guards looked horrified even as the Hound grinned broadly and began tasting their blood with his sword. Sansa darted into the room, moving around the side, staying out of the way but stabbing the back of a guard’s neck when she could.

Cersei was backed up as far as she could against the far wall. Her eyes were wide, her hair wild and all the blood had drained from her face. She saw something behind the Hound that made her smile.

Sansa whirled to look, “Behind you!” She cried just in time for the Hound to dodge to the side before the Mountain’s sword split the floor right where the Hound had just been standing.

That was when Cersei noticed Sansa. The guards were dead. The Hound was fighting the Mountain, his brother. Cersei glared, rage clouding her face and she bared her teeth as she seethed. Sansa’s expression was stony as she stared down the queen.

“Traitorous bitch!” Cersei hissed. The insult meant nothing to Sansa and her cold expression didn’t falter.

Sansa’s grip of her weapon tightened and she took a meaningful step forward. Cersei jerked back, but hit the wall. Behind her, Sansa could hear the Hound and the Mountain still fighting. Cersei wasn’t a threat right then Sansa realized. As much as she hated the woman she wasn’t who Sansa should be focusing on.

With a snarl, Sansa pivoted and assessed the situation. The Hound and the Mountain were locked in battle, but the Mountain was gaining ground. Partly because he was just somehow bigger, and partly because the Hound’s weapon was more delicate. It was the best Varys had been able to get him without getting caught and it was enough for some guards but not for the Mountain.

The Hound’s sword broke. He rolled sideways out of the line of the Mountain’s strike before grasping one of the fallen guard’s weapons. It was better, but not good enough. The Hound was pressed back. But Sansa saw it. An opening. She knew the Hound saw it too and the twisted scowl on his face told her he would have taken it if he could. But his weapon was being held at bay by the Mountain’s sword. If the Hound had simply had a dagger, or a short sword he could have plunged it into his brother’s neck.

Sansa didn’t have to consider it further, she didn’t have time either. Calling his name his eyes snapped to hers just as she tossed her weapon, her mother’s gift. The Hound released the hold on his sword with his left hand, now his right hand and arm strength was all that held the Mountain’s blade back, and caught the thin piece of metal. In a single swift movement, the Hound gabbed the thin blade into the side of the Mountain’s neck.

At the same time the Mountain’s strength won out and the Hound’s sword broke. The Hound made only a single grunt of pain as his brother’s blade bit into his arm. Blood poured from the Mountain’s neck even as he continued to bear down on his brother.

“BITCH!” Cersei screamed. Sansa didn’t have enough time to turn around when Cersei tackled Sansa from behind.

Throwing her weight to the side, Sansa rolled then onto their sides before snapping her head back and smashing it right into Cersei’s nose. Sansa heard a cracking noise and a cry of pain. But Cersei’s grip didn’t loosen. Her hands ripped at Sansa’s hair even as Sansa bucked and thrashed.

Sansa rolled them again, briefly knocking Cersei off of her. But the queen was on her again before Sansa had time to even breath. And the Cersei’s hands were around her neck, squeezing, nails biting into her flesh. Sansa choked, gasping for breath.

Her own hands scrambled first at the hands around her neck. But Cersei didn’t budge. The dark look of hatred on her face twisted her features, her lips curled back and his nose flaring. Sansa scratched at Cersei’s face. She tried to gouge at Cersei’s eyes but the woman jerked her head back so Sansa could only claw at her cheeks and neck. Cersei screamed as Sansa’s nails dug into her skin but her grip just tightened in response.

Sansa’s vision was tunneling. Her own heartbeat was thundering in her ears. Sansa kept scratching at Cersei with one hand while the other flailed out against the ground looking for something, anything she could use to get Cersei off of her.

Her hand brushed against something. Sansa pawed at it, grasped it in her hand. It was a metal goblet that must have been thrown to the floor during the fight. As soon as Sansa got a good grip on it she used all the strength she had to slam it into the side of Cersei’s head.

A horrible cracking sound filled the room. Cersei’s eyes went wide even as her expression slackened. Her grip loosened enough for Sansa to take a shallow breath. Then the Hound was yanking Cersei off of her and Sansa rolled onto her side coughing and gasping. Her lungs burned and her eyes squeezed shut as she hacked and choked on spittle until at last she could blessedly breath again.

Sansa’s eyes were watering when she opened them. There on the floor next to her was Cersei. The side of her head was indented slightly and there was blood coming from her nose. Her eyes were open, glassy and unseeing. Soulless.

“You alright?” The Hound asked crouching down next to her, his large hand hovering over her back as though unsure whether his comfort would be appreciated.

“Me?” Sansa asked, wincing because it not only hurt to speak, but her voice sounded scratchy. She cleared her throat and coughed again. When she spoke again her voice sounded better, though it still burned. “I’m fine. What about you? Your arm?”

The Hound grunted noncommittal, but Sansa could see it was still bleeding. Sansa ripped a long strip from Cersei’s dress and tied it tightly around the wound. It would at least help staunch the bleeding until they could sew it up.

“Ready to find your brother?” The Hound asked. He stood and extended a hand to help her to her feet. Sansa took it gratefully and nodded.

That’s right. They needed to find Robb. She needed to find Tyrion too and make sure he was alright. Tyrion. Sansa spared one last glance at Cersei’s lifeless body. Cersei may have been cruel and awful, but she was still Tyrion’s family, wasn’t she? And Sansa had killed her. Sansa could only hope that Tyrion forgave her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	29. Robb

Sansa had gotten his message. Of course she would, she was his sister, a Stark. Robb’s forces were hidden nearby and the minute the gates opened he led the charge with Robb and Grey Wind at the helm.

His mother and Arwyn stayed behind along with a small group and their prisoner Jamie Lannister. No need to bring him into King’s Landing. Lady of course stayed with his mother, keeping to her side like a shadow. Though there was something in the tension of the wolf’s shoulders that suggested to Robb that she knew Sansa, her master, was near.

The darkness was both helpful and also detrimental to their attack, but it served them better than the daylight would. Robb’s mouth twisted in a scowl when one of the Lannister soldiers managed to get the bells ringing, warning everyone of the attack. But it was too late really. Robb and his forces were already inside the walls.

Robb hacked and sliced his way toward the main keep. His goal was simple, to find his sister. And should he happen upon that bitch of a queen and her little inbred spawn, well, Robb would certainly have a bit of fun before finding Sansa. The thought made him grin.

He made it into the keep, Grey Wind at his heels. His wolf’s eyes shone blue and blood dripped from his jaws. Bran had gotten good at ripping out throats. Grey Wind’s nose twitched and sniffed before the wolf let out a low growl and padded quickly down the corridor.

“Do you smell her?” Robb asked, following quickly after. Behind him his own soldiers were pouring into the keep as well, weapons covered in red and expressions grim.

Grey Wind let out a snarl and Robb realized that the giant wooden doors the wolf had led him to were those of the throne room. Robb slammed his foot into the door. The wood bearly bowed forward though Robb heard the wood creek. It was a thick door, barricaded from the other side.

Robb’s voice was cold and hard as a winter wind as he barked out the order to break down the door. His soldiers wasted no time in finding a makeshift battering ram from one of the stone statues from one of the alcoves. Robb stood aside as they slammed the stone into the wooden door, a sound like thunder echoing each time it struck. The wooden door splintered each time until the entire door bowed inward and with a great snapping sound the door burst open.

Stepping inside, sword drawn and with Grey Wind and his soldiers at his heels, Robb couldn’t help grinning. King Jeoffrey stood in front of the Iron Throne, crown atop his head. His eyes were wide and there was a tremble to his stature that betrayed his fear despite the angry curl of his lips. Several guards stood on either side, ready to defend. Somewhere behind the Throne Robb caught the flash of hair and dresses. The Queen perhaps. But Robb’s focus remained on Jeoffry. He’d found the little boy king. And now he would kill him.

The guards attacked, resolute in giving their lives for the boy king. Robb’s soldiers and Grey Wind engaged them in a brutal clashing of blades and teeth as Robb advanced. One step at a time, Robb closed the distance between himself and Joffrey. The little king held a sword in both hands, its gleaming point trained on Robb.

Robb circled to the side, the way a predator would circle its prey. His lips curled back in a toothy grin and snarl. Robb could practically smell Joffrey’s fear. It set Robb’s heart thumping with anticipation.

“How dare you come here, you traitor–!” Joffrey said, voice quavering.

Before he could finish, Robb slapped his sword against Joffrey’s so hard the little king’s grip faltered. The king’s sword clattered to the floor, sliding and then tumbling down the steps.

“Did you like my gift?” Robb asked, voice dark and eyes sharp. Joffrey paled considerably and swallowed. Robb followed the bobbing motion of his throat with interest. His sword craved to feel the soft skin of Joffrey’s neck and taste the sweet rich blood of his throat. “It wasn’t quite complete,” Robb continued taking a step forward and causing Joffrey to take one back. “But it will be.”

Joffrey turned. He tried to run. Robb surged forward and slashed his sword across the boy king’s neck. Joffrey choked, wheezed, and fell to his knees as his hands scrambled to try to keep the gash across his throat closed. Robb watched the rivers of red escape through his fingers.

Robb circled Joffrey again until he was behind him. With a violent kick between Joffrey’s shoulder blades the king fell face first onto the floor in front of the Iron Throne. Robb put his boot on the boy’s back, holding him down before raising his sword and bringing it down hard enough to sever Joffrey’s head from his body.

The sound of swords striking and biting into armor and flesh still sounded in the hall as Robb’s soldiers fought. Grey Wind bounded up the steps to stand beside Robb, its muzzle freshly coated in blood. Robb had felt briefly fulfilled in taking the boy king’s life, but now that emptiness returned.

Robb stalked around the Iron Throne. One of the women shrieked and all of them looked fearfully up at him from where they hid, some in the shadow of the throne, others beneath a table set against the far wall. Robb’s eyes glanced over them. He didn’t see Cersei, and he didn’t see Sansa. He snorted in irritation before turning on his heel and storming out of the Throne Room.

His anger and rage had been briefly slaked by bathing his sword in Jeoffrey’s blood, but the only thing that would truly assuage his emotions was seeing his sister alive and well. Family. That’s what mattered most. Gritting his teeth and holding back a snarl, Robb strode down the hall further into the keep.

The place was a bloody maze, one Robb didn’t have familiarity with in the least. He cut down any soldiers that didn’t flee at the sight of his blood stained armor and furious expression. Until finally, as he walked down another hall, one of the outdoors opened and a familiar figure scurried into the hall.

Robb’s eyes blazed. Tyrion Lannister startled when he saw Robb, but didn’t look surprised. He opened his mouth to speak but Robb was advancing on him like a coming storm. Tyrion was forced to back up until his back thumped loudly against the wall. Robb’s blade rested a hair’s breadth from the Lannister’s throat.

“Where’s my sister?” Robb growled. Behind him Grey Wind echoed his demeanor. To his credit, the dwarf didn’t look terrified. Rather, he appeared merely nervous.

“Let’s not do anything we’ll regret,” Tyrion said and raised his hands, showing him he was free of weapons. As if being unarmed meant Robb wouldn’t kill him. Robb scoffed at the notion.

“I don’t do things I’ll regret.” Robb replied flatly.

“I was the one who opened the gates for your army,” Tyrion told him, voice careful and unwavering. He seemed sincere. “I’m on your side.”

“You’re a Lannister.” Robb said coldly, his sword still raised. He knew his mother thought highly of the imp, but because of who his family was Robb had to wonder if he was just lying to save his own skin. Sure he’d traded correspondence with his mother, but if he was half as loyal to his family as Robb was to his then they were most certainly enemies.

“Robb!” Sansa’s voice snapped his attention away from Tyrion for a brief moment, though his eyes stayed on his quarry. For Tyrion’s part, an expression of horror and then concern crossed his broken and battered features.

“Sansa,” Robb greeted, and he felt her stride to his side. Tentatively she reached out and placed a hand on his arm. She exerted a light pressure, as though asking him to lower his weapon.

“He’s my husband.” Sansa told him firmly.

“He’s a Lannister.” Robb shot back, though without the strength he wanted. Out of his periphery he saw Sansa give a half nod of agreement. 

“He’s my  _ family _ .” She said quietly. That word resonated with Robb though, as she knew it would. “He’s a Stark, even if not in name.” Robb huffed out a sigh but lowered his weapon. Frowning, he sheathed his sword at his side. 

“Does he make you happy?” Robb asked. That’s all that mattered to him really. He wasn’t about to argue with her about the imp’s name. 

“Yes,” She answered, and he heard the small smile in her voice. His eyes still didn’t leave the imp.

“Is he strong?”

“Yes,” Sansa said and laughed. Robb pictured her rolling her eyes at the question. But her answer was genuine. “He...he loves me. And not just because I’m pretty.”

“Although you are very beautiful, my dear,” Tyrion offered easily despite having had a sword at his throat moments before. “That certainly helps.” Sansa shot him an irritated look, but Robb could tell it wasn’t real irritation. They were teasing one another. Like family. A heavy weight settled in Robb’s chest.

“Fine.” Robb blew out a breath and finally looked at his sister. His smile faltered when he saw her. Around her throat were deep bruises and what looked like fingernail indents that had bit so far into the skin it had bled in places. The Hound was a few paces back, watching with hooded eyes. “Sansa…”

Robb didn’t get much more than her name out before Tyrion was hurrying forward towards her, his hands grasping hers lightly as his mismatched eyes took in her appearance. He was looking for more injuries. He was worried about her. Robb almost laughed because as much as Sansa said the Lannister loved her it was a whole other thing seeing it. And Robb did see it.

“I’m alright,” Sansa assured both of them, bending just enough to wrap her arms around Tyrion’s neck. Her eyes closed and she looked almost at peace. Robb felt that odd weight again. Peace. An odd feeling. One Robb only ever truly felt when he was taking a life.

The Hound cleared his throat. Robb sighed. He understood the Hound’s silent sentiment. They needed to go. Lingering in one place too long without knowing the final result of their battle was a poor idea. Still, Robb couldn’t imagine his force losing.

“Let’s go.” Robb said motioning with his head for them all to follow.

* * *

Sansa ran and threw her arms around their mother when she saw her. Robb was shocked at the sight, and the way Catelyn’s eyes widened told Robb she too was surprised. Sansa’s shoulders shook just a little, but when she pulled away her eyes were dry. Next Sansa dropped to her knees and hugged Lady. The wolf gave a soft howl that seemed to be a lament to their time apart.

Retreating to Winterfell would be a pain and a half. Robb seethed inwardly as everything that had transpired elsewhere in King Landing was relayed to him by his men. Yes, they’d taken the keep itself, the castle and the Iron Throne. They even had possession of one of the gates. But their enemy was not all in King’s Landing, and those that were, were hiding.

Catelyn, Arwyn, and the rest of Robb’s army had made it inside the keep after the fighting was over. But the fighting wasn’t truly done. The battle was over, but the war was not. Even though Cersei was dead along with the boy king, there was always someone else ready and willing to pick up the fight.

Luckily, there were many nobles in the keep, those who had been at court, and made excellent hostages to still the fighting for the moment. Robb was hopeful that he could retreat out of King’s Landing and leave the south to squabble over the Iron Throne while they headed back north. Or, possibly, parlay with whomever now fancied themselves next in line and just give them the Iron Throne in exchange for safe passage back to the north. Although Robb was more than willing to leave a trail of blood all the way home if needed. Part of him even hoped for it.

Setting a watch and barricading best they could, Robb let his army rest for a few days. Robb hated being in the city. There was something wrong about it after living in the wilderness for so long. Arwyn kept giving Robb worried glances, which told him she could tell how restless and unfulfilled he felt. He couldn’t shake the feeling though. He couldn’t find that peace that Sansa seemed to have found in being with her family.

Sansa came to see him along with her husband, Tyrion, only a few days of their occupation of King’s Landing. Robb had closed off the Throne Room, he’d left Joffrey’s body to rot there along with the Iron Throne. He’d taken one of the nicer solars to take meetings in. Catelyn was with him when they entered, though she moved to the side, deferring to Robb, King in the North.

“What are you going to do with Jamie Lannister?” Sansa asked him, wasting no time in getting to the point of her visit. Robb arched a brow at her question.

“I have no more need for him,” he said. “While I have plenty of resources available I suppose I shouldn’t waste it on a dead man.” Tyrion sucked in a sharp breath.

“But he’s alive now, isn’t he?” Tyrion demanded, taking a step forward.

“For now.” Robb said, glowering. Sansa shot Tyrion a placating look, her hand resting gently on his small shoulder.

“He doesn’t need to die.” Sansa said, meeting Robb’s gaze evenly.

“He doesn’t need to live.” Robb said back, crossing his arms and cocking his head. He didn’t understand why his sister would even care about Jamie Lannister. But then Robb understood. “He’s family.” He murmured darkly, his gaze sliding away from his sister to eye Tyrion.

“Allow me to take custody of him,” Tyrion said. “I’ll keep him from making trouble.”

“You’re not coming home…” Catelyn said quietly, startling Robb and his eyes snapped back to Sansa. She was frowning, but she didn’t deny it.

“You can’t be serious,” Robb snapped and found himself on his feet. The large desk between them felt like miles. Sansa smiled a little sadly.

“I am Lady Lannister now,” Sansa told him firmly. “I was always going to leave Winterfell.” Catelyn’s expression turned grim, but she nodded in understanding.

Robb cursed under his breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. “And you think this is a good idea?” He asked Sansa. “Allowing a Lannister, an enemy, to live?” It went against everything Robb had been taught and yet he found himself bending to the idea.

“He’s family,” Tyrion said quietly.

Robb growled, his fists clenching. Sansa smiled just a little. She already could tell that Robb would agree. It irritated Robb like an itch he couldn’t scratch, but with a sigh he tried to let it go and gave in.

“Fine.”

That was when the bells started ringing. Robb tore from the room, shoving around the desk and running down the hall. What could possibly be happening now? It was when he reached the main courtyard, everyone else close behind him that he found out.

A deafening roar filled the air. The sound of a beast once lost to the world. Robb’s eyes snapped to the sky. Three winged beasts ruled the heavens above as they soared towards King’s Landing. Another roar tore through the air and the nearby glass of the windows cracked.

Dragons.

Robb barely breathed as he watched them. Amazing creatures. They were supposedly extinct, yet here were three of the things. Beautiful beasts of destruction. And they were headed right for him, right for the huge courtyard where they all stood. Arwyn was suddenly beside him, having run to see what the commotion was about as well. Her hand slipped into his and he heard her take a sharp breath at the sight in the sky above.

Three huge dragons. All three dove and Robb had to brace himself and squint his eyes as a great gust of wind whipped around them as the dragons hovered and then landed. Robb shouted his command to hold fire as his soldiers surrounded the dragons, eyes huge and unsure. But Robb saw  _ him _ and knew the dragon’s were no threat.

There, on the back of one of the dragon’s was  _ him _ . Jon. His twin.

Robb barely registered that one of the other dragons had a rider as well, that she was strikingly beautiful and had the coloring of a Targaryen. All that mattered right then was that his twin, Jon, was alright.

Arwyn’s hand was left behind as Robb went to his brother. Jon slid off the dragon’s back with ease and met Robb halfway. They shared a smile. Robb wasn’t one for embraces, but when Jon took a few steps forward and wrapped his arms around him, Robb returned the gesture.

“Jon!” Sansa cried and ran forward as well. Jon pulled away from Robb, who still felt a little stunned, and caught Sansa in a tight hug, practically lifting her off her feet. Catelyn strode forward next and Jon embraced her as well.

Arwyn tentatively came to stand just behind Robb. He glanced back at her and there was something unreadable in her eyes as she watched him.

“You must be Arwyn,” Jon extended a hand and Arwyn took it carefully. But Jon’s smile was disarming and the corner of Arwyn’s mouth turned up just a little. “Welcome to the family.”

“Are you going to introduce me?” The Targaryen slid off her dragon’s back with a practiced ease. Jon went to her immediately, taking her hand and walking with her to stand before Robb and everyone else.

“May I present King Daenerys Targaryen, King of Dragons.” Jon introduced. “She’s here to reclaim the Iron Throne.” Jon’s eyes met Robb’s with a meaningful look. Robb almost rolled his eyes. As if he would want to stay in the south and continue fighting for a throne he didn’t want.

“It is yours,” Robb said, making a sweeping gesture that ended with him gesturing in the direction of the Iron Throne. The Targaryen woman raised a brow, but her lips quirked into a smile. “Though while the throne is yours to have, you should know there are others who wished to claim it and I plan on heading back to Winterfell.” 

“My army is less than a day’s march from King’s Landing,” the Targaryen woman, the King, said. “I am more than ready to go to war if need be.” She crossed her arms and her dragons growled behind her. Somehow, Robb didn’t think she’d have much trouble keeping the throne. “And you are King in the North, Robb Stark, I presume,” Robb inclined his head in assent.

“Oh,” Jon was quick to introduce everyone else. Sansa, his sister and Lady Lannister, Tyrion, Catelyn Stark, even the wolves, Lady and Grey Wind. Robb guessed that Ghost was traveling with the rest of the King’s army.

“You will join us for dinner, I hope,” Robb asked, after all the introductions were finally complete. “Although I suppose this is your keep and your city, so perhaps I should be asking if I may join you for dinner, oh King of Dragons.”

The Targaryen woman laughed and gave him a fierce smile.

At dinner, Jon told him everything, of the wall, the whitewalkers, Arya, Daenerys, and even dragon riding. He glossed over his excursion to the DreadFort and the Iron Islands though, barely mentioning that he’d been forced to put down a rebellion, which was how he’d come to meet the King.

Robb stayed with Jon, just talking for a long time.

It wouldn’t be long now, they’d be returning to Winterfell soon.

* * *

Robb hated that he was leaving Jon in King’s Landing. It hurt. Politically advantageous as it was, Robb still didn’t like it. Jon wanted to stay too. That’s what hurt the most. Robb understood, he did. Jon had explained it. But Robb still couldn’t fully accept it.

_ “I’m staying here,” Jon told him hesitantly. His eyes searching Robb’s. He’d come to Robb in the middle of the night, not wanting to talk to him about such a matter in front of too many eyes or ears. Robb had taken him into the adjacent solar so Arwyn wouldn’t wake. _

_ “For how long?” Robb asked lightly, but his voice was strained because he had a feeling he knew the answer. _

_ “I’m courting the King,” Jon said after a moment and Robb wasn’t surprised but he still tensed. He’d seen the way Jon looked at King Daenerys. “I’ve proposed marriage.” Robb was silent. “It’s good for the family, for us, to have friendly ties with the King.” Jon explained quickly. Robb’s fists clenched, his nails biting into the palms of his hands. _

_ “You  _ want _ to stay.” Robb managed through grit teeth, and it was only sort of an accusation. Jon gave Robb a helpless look. “You--” _

_ “It’s not that I don’t want to be with our family, with you!” Jon broke in and Robb tried to stop seething. Jon was his brother, not his property, and he was right. It was a good idea. “I’ll visit you and everyone as much as I can, but…” Jon heaved a sigh. “I think, I think my place is here now.” _

_ “Your place is with me.” The words were out before Robb had time to consider them. He looked away, not meeting Jon’s eyes. _

_ “I know…” Jon’s soft admission had Robb’s head jerking back up, his own eyes searching his twin’s. Why then? Why would Jon stay if he knew they belonged-- “But I need to stay.” _

_ The words were final, apologetic, but final. And it was then that Robb recognized the softness Jon exuded was somehow false. He wasn’t as kind and softhearted as he acted when he was with Robb. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he suddenly did. He didn’t know how to feel about that. _

_ Robb couldn’t do anything but accept it. Jon hugged him then. Wrapped his arms around him and told him they’d always be family, always be two sides of the same being. It was odd, being hugged. Robb still wasn’t used to it. But he returned the embrace easier than he had any other in his whole life as he silently told his brother, his twin, goodbye. _

And now they were preparing to leave. Preparing to leave without Jon. Robb bit his tongue trying not to think too much about it. Arwyn approached, her hand lightly touching his upper arm, letting him know she was there. He looked down at her and tried to give her a reassuring smile. She didn’t look reassured at all though. Her gaze moved from Robb to Jon who stood with the King not too far away. Robb hadn’t even realized he was staring at his brother so intently until Arwyn was there with her questioning glance.

She hesitated, like she wanted to say something. Arwyn bit her lip, worried it between her teeth before finally saying what was on her mind.

“You love him, don’t you?” Arwyn asked, her voice soft and tinged with sadness. Robb realized she must have awoken at some point and heard some of his conversation with Jon, either that or Robb was too easily read.

“Of course I do,” Robb agreed easily. “He’s my twin, my family.” He continued, then added, “You’re my family too, and I love you.” He hadn’t said it often, it felt odd to say those words now, but he hoped to put her at ease. She hesitated, bit her lip again.

“More than me though…” He barely caught her words, they weren’t more than a whisper. Robb blinked at that. He turned and looked over to where Jon, his twin, stood talking quietly with the Dragon King.

“Yes.” There was no hesitation. It was a simply but profoundly true statement. Arwyn didn’t seem surprised. She nodded a little to herself. “He’s my other half.” He said softly, “The other part of my soul.”

Arwyn looked sad, but nodded, seeming to understand. Robb knew she didn’t, couldn’t. Not really. Reaching out he placed a hand on her head, ruffling her hair just a little in fondness. It brought a bit of a smile to her face.

“Come on,” Robb nodded towards the horses. “It’s time you see Winterfell. Your home.”

She smiled when he said it. And so did he. 

Home. It was time to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	30. Catelyn

Jon was married to the Dragon King not long after Daenerys took the Iron Throne. He wrote often. More to Robb than anyone else, but often. He missed Winterfell, that much was clear. But to Catelyn it seemed he was doing better with Daenerys than he would without. Catelyn visited not long after they were married and she immediately noticed the dark circles under his eyes were gone. He looked more rested, more at ease, more at peace. Catelyn was thankful.

Sansa was south as well. Still married to Tyrion Lannister, though Sansa still called herself Stark. She ruled with her husband over Casterly Rock. She sent many letters and Catelyn could tell she missed Winterfell.

Robb ruled Winterfell with Arwyn by his side. She was pregnant now, her belly swollen with future Starks. Robb seemed happy, but he also seemed a little restless. He missed his twin dearly, but Catelyn could tell he missed battle as well. There was always something brittle in his smiles, in his eyes, a longing for blood and death that was impossible to have again.

Arya had taken a liking to travel. She would go to the wall to visit Gendry, then south to King’s Landing to see Jon, and then over to visit Sansa as well before returning briefly home to see the rest of her family.

Bran. Bran was quiet. His eyes not as wide and hopeful as they’d once been. Bran’s eyes looked at her like they shared a secret, though what secret that was Catelyn didn’t know. He seemed sad too. Oftentimes he retreated into his warg state and Catelyn wouldn’t see him for hours on end. She didn’t know what to do to help him.

Rickon was the only one who seemed to come out of the war still mostly himself. He didn’t suffer from insomnia or have bouts of hyperventilation or seemingly random flinching like all her other children. Catelyn found she was able to provide him with more comfort than she used to. It felt more natural to hold him and stroke his hair, to smile at him.

Somehow the war had changed Catelyn as well. Still cold and hard as steel, but also maybe just a little more understanding of her children’s feelings and needs. After all, she’d prepared them for war and they’d all survived and come out stronger. But they had not come through unscathed.

* * *

Catelyn felt she had little more to do in life. Her children were grown, half of them married, and all of them strong warriors. So it was a surprise when a visitor arrived at Winterfell wanting to speak with her. She couldn’t think of who would want to see her that wasn’t family. But when she went to the main hall to greet the visitor she recognized him. It took her a moment, as she hadn’t seen him in quite some time, not for years. 

Howland Reed. He smiled at her and gave a small wave. Catelyn recognized him. Of course she recognized him. He was a dear friend of Ned’s. Howland had aged considerably, looking older than he was. Time had not been kind. He used a cane to walk and Catelyn could see his legs trembling with every step. She led him to her solar, the servants brought tea and then left them alone.

“It’s good to see you survived the war,” Catelyn said politely after a long silence. She waited for him to tell her why he was there. He let out a long sigh.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Howland said quietly. For a moment Catelyn didn’t understand. “Ned was a good man.” Catelyn kept herself from bristling at the mention of his name. The flame of anger and sadness flickering within her.

“He was.” Catelyn replied curtly. Her patience was wearing thin as Howland seemed to be chewing over his words.

“I thought…” He stopped, started again. “You deserve to know the truth about something.” Instead of asking what she deserved to know the truth about she waited, letting the silence fill the space between them. “Jon is not Ned’s son.” Catelyn’s whole body tensed, her own heartbeat trimming in her ears. She swallowed and focused as he continued to speak. 

Howland explained that when they’d reached the tower, when they’d reached Ned’s sister they found her in a pool of blood. They’d found her with a child. He told her about the secret marriage, the child, and the promise. Jon was not a bastard. He was not only legitimate, but also had claim to the Iron Throne.

“At this point I don’t think it matters anymore, but I thought you should know.” Howland finished, voice soft. “Ned...it hurt him to have to lie to you like that, to lie at all, but to you especially.”

Catelyn felt a pressure behind her eyes. It was unfamiliar, foreign. She’d felt it before as a child she was sure, but she couldn’t determine what it was right then. Releaf, love, a swell of emotions flared inside her at the knowledge. Ned hadn’t cheated on her. He hadn’t betrayed her. He was protecting his sister’s child. Protecting his family. By lying to her. It stung, a sharp whiplash from the soft relief, that Ned hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her the truth. He’d never trusted her enough to tell her. But he hadn’t betrayed her. And that, that was something.

“He should know,” He continued, snapping Catelyn from her thoughts. “He should know his lineage.”

Those words stabbed at her. His lineage. A growl clawed in her throat. How dare he.

“He’s _my_ son.” Catelyn said, tone clipped. Suddenly angry at the notion that someone was trying to take him away from her.

“He’s a Targaryen,” Howland said firmly. Catelyn bit her tongue from snapping back that he was a Stark.

“Who else knows?” She asked, voice tight but controlled.

“No one alive,” He said slowly, his eyes as keen as her own.

“Jon doesn’t need to know.” Catelyn told him, eyes full of steel. He frowned slightly. “He’s _my_ son.” She repeated, stronger than before. “He’s still a Stark, and him knowing will only make his life worse.”

Howland considered that. With Jon’s parentage revealed, he would have a stronger claim to the Iron Throne than King Daenerys. And Jon was married to Dany. Married to his aunt. Such a union was not odd for a Targaryen perhaps, but Jon may not wish to continue such a marriage with such close blood ties. 

But aside from the potential political fallout, Catelyn knew Jon and Robb would never recover from learning they weren’t actually twins. They wouldn’t know who they were anymore as they’d always grounded themselves by understanding their other half, their twin. It was only since the war that Catelyn had been able to admit that there was without a doubt something wrong with Robb. But he managed it, whatever it was. He managed it with the knowledge that Jon was his twin. Catelyn would kill this man before she’d let him ruin her children’s lives.

Finally, Howland nodded. And the way he looked at her, the wariness in his eyes told her he knew she would not let him walk out of Winterfell alive unless he swore to never reveal the truth to another soul.

“I suppose I’ve done my duty in telling you,” Howland told her, words a little stilted. “No one else need know.”

“Thank you.” Catelyn let out a breath and smiled pleasantly at him. Despite her politeness, there was a cold wintery feeling to her words. A promise of retribution should he break his word.

Family, duty, honor. Catelyn had lived her life by those words. Her children were raised on those words and followed them without question. Family was placed first above all else. Duty was next but was so closely tied with the first, because in the end it was duty to the family that took priority. Both ideals placed others, the family, above the self. There was no room for their own wants or ideals. Honor, the only ideal that allowed for a sense of self, came last as was always overshadowed by the first two.

Since the war ended Catelyn wondered whether she’d made a mistake with her children. She couldn’t regret what her children had become. They were fierce, powerful warriors. Although some of them seemed lost without the constant fight or threat of war. But they were strong. They’d been made to survive the winter after all.

And they had withstood the desolation of winter. They’d more than survived. 

Now, winter was finally over.

Catelyn wondered whether they could survive without it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I'm sorry if this didn't meet your expectations or if it just didn't end like you hoped.  
> And thank you everyone for all of your comments, both good and bad!  
> Happy reading.


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